How the Light Gets In
by potato4
Summary: He grabbed her wrist with his left hand and pinned it above her head, pressing their forearms together, Dark Mark against Mudblood scar. Death Eater against Muggle-born. "The war left scars on both of us that we didn't ask for. But you still flinch when you see mine. And what's why I will never deserve to have you." Slow-burn Dramione. Canon compliant. EWE.
1. A Lightning-Shaped Burn

**How the Light Gets In**

* * *

 **Chapter One: A Lightning-Shaped Burn**

At the age of 24, after three years of teaching, Hermione Granger had gained a tremendous amount of respect for the Hogwarts professors of her youth. As she packed up her classroom, sweeping up the feathers that fell from quills and tracing her fingers over the initials scratched into the wooden desks, she felt the first pang of real sadness hit her. She wouldn't miss teaching, but there was something about the classroom—the place she felt most at home—that she was apprehensive to leave behind.

A tall, thin woman with narrow spectacles appeared in her doorway. "Finished yet, Miss Granger?"

Hermione smiled warmly, knowing that she'd never again have a boss as wonderful as McGonagall. She set down the picture she was wrapping in newspaper—a framed photo of Harry, Ron, and herself laughing outside of Hogwarts after it had been rebuilt—and smiled at the older woman. "Almost there."

The room would have probably taken a half hour to clear magically, but Hermione liked to pack the Muggle way. She enjoyed going through her things, reminiscing, deciding what to keep and what to throw away. As she stripped her room bare, she exposed the lovely brick walls and the six-foot-long windows. The sun was setting and dusty rays of light were dancing on her desk, the last thing in the room she had to clear out.

"I suppose it's too late to beg you one last time to stay?"

Hermione smiled sadly. "You know this isn't easy for me."

"I know. It's just too good an opportunity to turn down, isn't it?" McGonagall's smile was also sad, but her eyes were full of pride for her old student.

At age 21, Hermione had been one of the youngest Hogwarts professors in the school's history. She spent three years teaching an Introduction to Magical Law and Justice course to third through fifth year students, and while her proximity in age to her students allowed for a friendly classroom environment, it also meant she wasn't always taken as seriously as other professors. Nevertheless, teaching was easy, relaxing, and she had plans to stay for at least five years to give herself some time off from the stresses of the war. But when the Ministry came knocking at her door with a career opportunity she couldn't turn down, she had no choice but to offer her resignation to McGonagall.

"Well, I just wanted to stop by and wish you luck before you leave. You be sure to visit," the elder witch said sternly.

Hermione felt tears well up in her eyes as she hugged McGonagall. "Thank you so much for everything."

"Of course, Miss Granger. You know you'll always have a home here." With a final smile, a very Dumbledore-like wink, and a crack in the cool evening air, she was gone.

Hermione picked back up the photo she had been wrapping and traced a finger over the edges. She remembered the day so vividly: they were invited for the ribbon-cutting ceremony at the grand re-opening of Hogwarts, dressed in their finest robes, laughing at something Ron had said. She watched herself throw her head back in mirth, her hair flying wildly in the wind. She smiled at the way Harry's nose crinkled when he was trying to hold back a giggle and the way Ron dimpled as he looked at his friends in admiration. It had been a wonderful day. Behind them were a few of the other Weasleys: Ginny was tousling George's hair while Percy, watched them solemnly from a few yards away. This was before Percy had to be institutionalized, gone insane from guilt after the death of his brother. In the photo he was wearing a white hat, which he wore every day and refused to take off.

As she moved to tuck the photo away, something in the far background caught her eye: a flash of blond hair she hadn't noticed before. She squinted, brought the photo closer, and sure enough, in the far left hand corner of the photo, a sulking Draco Malfoy was watching the trio of friends and frowning deeply at their joy.

Hermione rolled her eyes. She hadn't remembered Malfoy attending the event, but of course he would be the one to ruin yet another pleasant Hogwarts memory. With a sigh, she moved to place the photo in the throwaway pile, but at the last moment she changed her mind. It _was_ a lovely picture, and perhaps there was a way to charm Malfoy out of it. Tucking the frame away in the keep pile, she made a mental note to read up on photo-altering spells that evening.

* * *

"Harry Potter, you absolute _twat_!"

Hermione stood in the busy Burrow kitchen, grinning stupidly as she watched Ginny Weasley chase her raven-haired husband with a spatula. Her normally fire-engine red hair was now dyed a deep shade of royal blue, courtesy of Harry.

"You'll never catch me," he taunted as she skipped away. "And I've got more where that came from!"

Ginny was waving her wand over her head, trying every charm she could think of to bring her hair back to normal, but nothing seemed to work.

Molly Weasley shook her head as she kneaded away at a ball of dough. "I thought once you lot graduated and aged a few years, it wouldn't be a raging mess when you visited. I suppose I was a touch too optimistic."

Hermione chuckled. Regular dinner gatherings on the first Sunday of the month were a tradition at the Weasley hom. Over the years, the crowd of guests varied as people moved in and out of the area, became busy, and found new partners to introduce, but the chaos of the Weasley home never changed.

"Is there anything I can do to help?" Hermione offered.

"No, thank you dear. I have a fine-tuned system going on here, you'll probably just mess it up."

Hermione couldn't argue with the woman. Pots and pans whizzed around the kitchen in precise movements like stations on a factory conveyor belt. Pots of water were boiling on the stovetop, three ovens were set to three different temperatures, and knives were chopping onions all on their own, eliminating the risk of tearing up. Cooking for a group of over twenty was no easy task.

"So, tell me more about this new job of yours," Molly requested as she poured tomato sauce over as steaming vat of pasta. "I never got to hear the details."

"Oh, I'm so excited!" If anything could bring forth the passionate side of Hermione, it was her work. "Kingsley had been contacting me for months, trying to get me to come work at the Ministry. You know, they need good press now more than ever, especially after that toxic potion spill. I think he really wants Harry, Ron, and I there together, you know, the whole box set."

"Nonsense, he wants you for your talent and brains and nothing more," Molly chided, pointing a red-stained spoon at Hermione, who blushed

"Well, I liked where I was at Hogwarts, but teaching was never a long-term plan for me. Then a few weeks ago, Kingsley owled me explaining that there was all this extra work to be done that didn't fit in any of the existing departments at the Ministry. He offered for me to travel for three months across Europe and the States to complete the work, make new contacts with foreign government officials, and do various types of research. Once I come back he wants me to create my own department that focuses on International Relations and Magical Justice."

The kitchen door swung open and another pink-faced redhead entered the kitchen. "Are we talking about Hermione's fantastic new gig?" Ron reached for a dinner roll, which earned him a smack on the wrist from Molly. He sat down next to Hermione and placed a welcome kiss on her forehead. "When did you get here?"

Hermione was used to her entry being overlooked; she often arrived later than the others and always declined to join them in their customary pre-dinner Quidditch match. "Only an hour ago, which you may have noticed had you and George not being trying to murder one another with the Quaffle."

"Ah, I've missed that sarcasm of yours so dearly. But I won't have to worry about that for much longer, now that you'll be joining us at the Ministry—"

" _Maybe_ —Kingsley said I can decide on my own once I come back if I like Ministry work."

"Oh, you know you're going to love it. How can bossy Hermione Granger turn down the opportunity to order around her own department? Teaching might be fun, but we all know you belong where the action is—sticking her nose in everyone else's business and telling them what is and isn't morally just!"

Hermione turned her nose up at him stubbornly, but she knew he was right. After the two year long relationship they'd had, he could read her like a book. Even though they weren't together any longer, she still felt most relaxed and at home when around Ron. Their relationship, for the most part, had been good and familiar and warm. In the end, it became a little too familiar, in the way only friends were, which is what they decided to remain—just friends.

Hermione watched somewhat wistfully as Ron wandered off again to the hill outside where the Weasley men were playing some hybrid of Quidditch and dodge ball. Some nights, she missed the familiarity of Ron: his simple moods, his goofy laugh, the way she could never be truly angry at him, just annoyed. More than anything, she missed having a companion, someone to lean on and confide in. After school, without any reason to constantly be around her friends, Hermione found herself lonely quite often. She saw her friends regularly, at least once a week, but she felt a little lost sometimes. Harry and Ginny were already married, Ron had his own career and life outside of her, and it quickly dawned upon her that she didn't have many other friends.

She thought briefly of the photo she found earlier, and realized that, frowning at the Weasley's Quidditch game as Harry chased Ginny up the hill, she felt a little like Malfoy had looked. Alone, like she was on the outside looking in on something happy she didn't belong to.

* * *

Dinner that night was plagued by an invasion of George's newest prototype for his joke shop: color bombs, tiny pellets that changed the color of any object they came in contact with. Ginny had been their first victim earlier in the evening, courtesy of Harry, and the first to discover the magical twist of the bombs—they were semi-permanent.

"I hate you, Harry Potter," she grumbled as she sullenly spooned creamed corn into her mouth. Her new hair color wasn't horrible, but it made her skin seem even paler and somewhat sickly, and she was the first to discover that the dye was semi-permanent.

"You love me," Harry said, leaning over to kiss his wife on the cheek. The two had a whirlwind romance after the war, marrying each other at just 20 and 19. Although Hermione had never been close to Ginny during school, the two had become fast friends after the marriage. Ginny's quick wit and dry sense of humor complimented Hermione's wry one well.

Hermione leaned over to her friend, knowing how unpleasant it was to be the guinea pig for George's new tricks. "Do you want me to try to charm it back?"

"I tried everything. I have no idea what he put in this stuff, the wanker."

"It's charmed. You can't get rid of it," George said. "There's only one way to make it disappear."

"George," Molly warned, picking up on the mischievous tone in her son's voice. They had made it thirty minutes into dinner without an incident, which was practically a Weasley record.

"Tell me," Ginny pleaded. "I'm desperate. I have a publicity event tomorrow with the Harpies and I _cannot_ go out like this."

George flashed his sister a familiar grin and Hermione instinctively tensed up, ready for whatever was about to happen.

"If you insist," George said slowly. "All you need is a little… _water_!"

On cue, he leapt up, leaned across the table towards Ginny, and poured a glass of ice water straight onto his sister's head. Hermione yelped and jerked aside to avoid the spray of freezing water, but a small amount still splashed onto her cheek. Ginny froze, her mouth agape in surprise and anger. Her clothes were soaked, but true to George's word, her hair was back to red.

"You. Absolute. _Prat_ ," she hissed as she jumped from the table, wand pointed at George. He narrowly avoided her Bat Bogey hex, then picked up his broom and took off, which was a grave mistake. Ginny was the star of the Harpies, and her skills in the sky were better than even Harry's.

Harry leaned over, a sly grin on his face, and whispered to Hermione: "He's going to regret having done that later."

"Why?"

He shrugged mysteriously. "You'll see."

Despite Molly's protests and Arthur's flustered attempts to keep the family in check, the meal only degenerated further from there. Ron tossed another bomb onto Bill's shirt, which exploded bright pink all over his chest. A little dust scattered onto Fleur, who did not take the prank in good humor.

" _Ron_!"

Soon enough, _Aguamentis_ were being cast left and right, and before long there wasn't a dry body left at the table. As the sun set, the cold drove the group inside, where they huddled by the fireplace with mugs of cocoa and slices of pie. Charlie sat beside Hermione on the couch, where the pair chatted about her impending travels. Hermione quite liked the company of Charlie, who was steady, good-humored, and a little more serious than his younger brothers. He was also very intelligent, something she hadn't known about him previously.

Charlie's girlfriend, Astoria Greengrass, joined them on the couch. She was a fair bit younger than Charlie and their relationship caused quite a stir when Charlie first brought her around, not just because of their age gap. But Astoria proved to be very different from the pureblood Slytherin stereotype. She was quiet, shy, good-natured, and kind. She was also a little boring for Hermione's taste, preferring light conversation about fashion over more engaging topics, but they got on well enough.

"I have some a good friend in the states who handles particularly violent dragon species, the kind that are only safe in captivity. He'd love to meet you," Charlie said to Hermione. "Right now he's drafting some legislation to improve dragon habitats. Plus, he's single." Charlie winked.

Astoria wiggled her eyebrows at Hermione. "He's talking about Andrew. He _is_ very cute."

Hermione flushed. "I think I'll be busy with work. And I'm not really looking for anyone at the moment."

"Come on, now. Who was the last person you dated, my brother? I won't allow that, not for the great Hermione Granger."

Hermione frowned, trying not to take Charlie's comments too seriously. She was tired of everyone—family, friends, even some of her old students—badgering her about her love life. It got tiring after awhile, and she was doing all right on her own. Although, even she had to admit, she hadn't been shagged in almost a year, and the dry spell was getting to her.

Astoria leaned in and looked at Hermione mischievously. "I overheard you and Ginny talking about someone named Daniel the other day. Could that be someone special?"

Hermione flushed. Daniel was a wealthy foreign man she met at one of Ginny's Quidditch game who was badgering her for a date. He was nice, but she wasn't sure she was ready to get seriously involved with someone.

"He's no one. And I'm happy on my own," she said somewhat defensively. "I have plenty of time to find someone, I'm not an old hag quite yet."

Charlie nudged her shoulder. "Aw, Hermione, you know I didn't mean that, I just—"

Harry, who had suddenly stood and walked to the front of the fireplace, where he was grinning like a child with a juicy secret, cut Charlie's apology short. Ginny was standing next to him with an equally idiotic smile on her face. "Excuse me, everyone!" she called out.

Hermione frowned, trying to read her friend's face, but Ginny refused to make eye contact. Instead, she was looking up at her husband with googly eyes full of excitement and love.

"Ginny and I have a little announcement to make. We've been waiting quite a bit to tell you all this, but we wanted to wait until we had everyone together as a group."

"Oh, don't tell me you're divorcing already," George groaned. "I know my sister can be a pain, but hang in there, mate. She's too young to be a divorcee."

"No, George, it's not a divorce. I bet this is some pyramid scheme they've been roped into. If it is, I'm sorry, but I'm not investing," Ron chimed in. Since Fred's passing, Ron had stepped up to take the place of George's right-hand man.

"Oh, no, I've got it—I bet she's gone and got herself knocked up!" The two of them fell into a fit of giggles, but Ginny's mouth fell open slightly. Harry's smile turned into a frown.

"Well, thanks for ruining it."

The brothers sobered almost immediately. "What?"

"Hold on— _what_?" Molly repeated, her voice shrill.

Hermione felt the room freeze, and even she couldn't find the words she was looking for. "Ginny?" she managed, eyes wide, gaze locked in on her friend's stomach. She couldn't be…

"Well, I guess the long, emotional speech we had planned is out the window," Ginny said, throwing her hands in the air in defeat. "Yep. I'm pregnant."

The noise that erupted following her words was enough to deafen. Hermione felt warmth rush through her chest and she jumped up to be the first to embrace her friend. "I can't believe you didn't tell me!" she squealed into her friend's hair as she pulled her tight.

"Harry made me promise we'd announce it as a group," Ginny apologized, her voice muffled by her friend's embrace. "He wanted to tell you and Ron separately as well, but we couldn't trust Ron not to spill the beans."

"Congrats, mate," Ron said as she clapped Harry on the back. His pale cheeks were tinged red, clearly uncomfortable congratulating his friend for impregnating his sister.

Hermione had a thousand questions to ask, but Ginny was swept away by her parents and brothers, each wanted to tousle her hair or put a hand to her belly or simply marvel at the fact that there was a baby growing inside her. She turned to Harry, but he was now shaking hands with Mr. Weasley, somberly promising to always protect his daughter and her unborn child. Realizing that there would be time later to talk, Hermione backed away slightly and watched the warmth of the scene before her. She suddenly felt like an outsider again until Ron caught her eye from across the room and smiled at her, anchoring her back to reality. Something about the way he smiled reminded her that this was her family—not by blood but by bond, full of laughter and light and life.

* * *

After Ginny and Harry's announcement, the rest of the night was spent discussing the new child. No, they didn't know the gender, yes, they were going to find out eventually, no, they wouldn't name him George if it was a boy, yes, they were going to get a private room so everyone could be there when it arrived. The family celebrated late into the evening, and it wasn't until half past midnight that people started to march upstairs or Floo off to their respective homes. George, Bill, Charlie, and Fleur left, and the rest were saying their farewells.

"I was going to go home, but something tells me that Molly isn't letting Ginny go anywhere tonight." Harry was alone with Hermione in the kitchen, away from the others who were still interrogating Ginny in the living room.

"I should probably be getting home soon," Hermione said with a long yawn. "I've got so much to do…"

"Stay a bit. I feel like we haven't talked in forever."

"We haven't!" Hermione agreed. She and Harry hadn't had a good, long conversation in months. He used to meet with her regularly at Hogwarts for lunch and they would talk for ages. Sometimes she would let her students visit and she'd watch in amusement as they drilled Harry with questions about his childhood adventures and time at Hogwarts. But life got in the way, and he visited less and less often, eventually stopping altogether.

"Although I see now that you had a big secret to keep from me," Hermione teased.

"I wanted to tell you, really! Ron as well. But I think it was best that we did it with everyone at once—no playing favorites."

Hermione could see the pure, unadulterated joy in her friend's face, something he lacked so much when they were younger. He was young to be a father, but Harry deserved the family he so craved. He deserved a pure start. But part of her, some horrible part of her that she tried to shove down inside, was having a difficult time being genuinely happy for her friends. In many ways, she was jealous. They had so much figured out, so much stability in one another, and she had none of that. Worst of all, she was _supposed_ to have that. She was Hermione Granger, after all. She always had things figured out.

"What about you, Hermione? Are you doing alright?" Harry, like Ron, was exceptionally good at picking up even the slightest change in her moods. "You've been a little isolated lately."

She had been. Ever since the war, she had been struggling with anxiety, post-traumatic stress, everything you'd expect someone to be struggling with after what she had been through. But unlike many, she preferred to struggle in silence. She knew the boys would understand, even relate, but she had no desire to talk it out with them. Some things were best dealt with alone.

"I'm fine, just really busy, and really, really tired."

"Well, get some sleep. I miss your incessant nagging."

"Is that the litmus test for if I'm okay? Whether or not I'm nagging?"

"Yes, it is," Ron answered from the doorway, where he appeared with a fork in hand, working away at his third slice of pie. "I was wondering where you two—"

Suddenly, his line of vision shifted from his two friends to something behind them. His eyes went wide and his mouth fell open slightly. There was a crashing noise as his plate fell to ground and shattered as he swiftly reached for his wand. " _Stupefy_!"

Hermione screamed as the spell shot just over her head. She turned around to find three white hooded figures inside the Burrow. The back door to the kitchen was wide open; they had forgotten to lock it. One of the men narrowly missed Ron's spell, and they took off racing across the kitchen with their wands raised. With a swish, one of the men produced a thick stream of fire that slithered over the ground and hid them from view. Ron flicked his wand wordlessly and the fire rose from the ground and began to chase the intruders into the kitchen. His wordless magic had improved immeasurably after Auror training.

Harry scrambled for his wand as Hermione steadied herself against the counter, still trying to understand what was going on. The men were dressed in long white robes, with hats like KKK members, except their hoods were tight against their head, not pointed up like cones. "My wand… I can't find my wand…" he hissed.

"What was that?" Molly called from the other room. A moment later there was a chorus of screams—the fire reached the living room.

Hermione finally centered herself and followed where Ron had run, where she saw the two other men running out the front door of the Burrow, a trail of fire following them. " _Expulso_!"

The front door to the Burrow exploded, and a gust of wind came roaring in that drew the flames up higher.

"GINNY!" Harry screamed hoarsely from the kitchen, unable to suppress the flames that now blocked the entrance to the living room. He was too panicked to produce a healthy _Aguamenti_. "GINNY!"

"I'm here, Harry, I'm okay!" Ginny's voice came from the other side of the living room, away from Hermione.

"Run!" he yelled.

There were other shouts from the rest of the Weasleys as they tried to find one another amongst the fire. Hermione was behind Ron, who was climbing over the decimated doorway. He turned back to her and shook his head disappointedly: her explosion hadn't hit any of them. They got away.

Ron climbed further up the rubble, trying to find higher ground. " _Aguamenti_!"

Hermione joined him atop the cement pile and the pair tried to put out the fire faster than it could spread. She spotted Ginny holding onto Molly and Arthur near the bookcase, her sweater slightly singed. Both women's faces were white as the intruder's robes.

"Are you okay?" he yelled to them. They nodded mutely.

"They're gone," Ron said. "Must've apparated."

They extinguished the rest of the fire in a matter of seconds and Harry raced over to his wife. "Are you okay? Is… is it okay?" He looked up and down from her stomach to her face, cradling it closely in his hands.

"I'm fine, just shaken up. What happened? We were just talking, next thing I know there's a fire up to the ceiling in here!"

"There were men. Three of them," Ron said grimly.

Arthur moved towards the door, but his son shook his head. "They got away."

Molly was staring, shocked, at what was left of the front of her home. "What… who…"

"Ron saw them first. There were three of them, three men." Hermione heard her voice shake. She hadn't realized how terrified she was. "They were dressed in hoods. Ron tried to stop them, but they ran, so I tried to hit them by exploding the door. I wasn't thinking, of course that was a dumb decision, and they got away…"

Ron reached out and pulled her into his chest. "Hey, it's okay. Don't cry."

Hermione reached up and felt her cheeks—indeed, they were wet. She hadn't even noticed. "I'm sorry…"

"It's not your fault."

"I just… that was horrible… Who were they?"

Ron didn't answer, just held her tighter. He smelled familiar, like home, and she cried openly. They hadn't been attacked, not even a small threat, in years.

It was silent for a moment as the four friends held one another and recovered from the shock. Then came a whisper from Molly, soft and low, from somewhere near the gaping hole in the wall. "Oh, my God…"

Hermione pulled away from Ron, on edge again. "What?"

Molly didn't say a thing, just pointed to something in the front lawn. Harry, Ron, and Hermione slowly came up behind her, and another sob caught into Hermione's throat when she saw what was burned into the grass.

There, charred into the ground, at least ten feet long, was a jagged lightning scar.

* * *

 **This A/N comes to you in six parts. Get used to long A/Ns!**

 **1\. This story is nearly finished. I've been working on it for the past few months and suspect it will be a little over 30 chapters total. It is a slow-burn romance, so don't expect happy fluffiness every chapter!**

 **2\. Chapters will be likely be posted once a week, _possibly_ more often, _probably_ not.**

 **3\. I wrote this as a way to get out my urge to write romance and then decided I might as well post it! Be kind. It's not meant to be a literary masterpiece.**

 **4\. This is rated M for language and sexual themes. I don't write _smut_ but there's certainly sex in this fic.**

 **5\. The title of this fic is inspired by a lyric from Leonard Cohen's song 'Anthem'. It goes "There is a crack in everything/That's how the light gets in." The lyric matches the struggle our characters are going through—finding light in their brokenness.**

 **6\. I characterized D & H how I pictured they would be post-war. I built Draco mostly around what I read in Cursed Child (the only redeeming part of that trash book was Draco lol). He is not evil or hateful, but rather broken and struggling between his prideful nature and the fact he knows he's done wrong. I might explain more about why I wrote him the way I did because I did quite a bit of research and character building for him before writing.**

 **When I went back to the novels for the millionth time to research Hermione, I noticed that she's quite a bit more emotional than I read in a lot of fics. Canon Hermione does have a lot of emotional responses to events, but she was also very self-confident and smart, which balanced that out. I see the war bringing her vulnerable side to the forefront and really wanted to explore that idea.**

 **I feel as if it's important to explain why I'm writing the characters the way I am because they're observed in very different ways in different fics. This is the angle I chose to explore—I hope you enjoy.**

 **-potato.**


	2. Enter Malfoy

**Chapter Two: Enter Malfoy**

The next morning began with a debriefing at the Ministry after a long, sleepless night at the Burrow. Hermione was too spooked to spend the night alone at her flat, not that Ron would have let her go home alone anyway, so she ended up sleeping in his old bed while he took the couch. She felt like she was seventeen again, back in the forest sleeping in a tent and waking up to every little gust of wind or crunch of the leaves outside. She wondered if the boys felt the same; it seemed as if they were able to brush off the event and go to bed like it was any other day. She, however, spent the evening staring at the sky outside the window, going over the details of what happened in her head, and it wasn't until she saw the first rays of sun dotting the sky that she realized she hadn't slept a wink.

After everyone at the Burrow had a moment to absorb what had happened, Molly remembered the Muggle security cameras Arthur had installed in the house a few months ago. He found the cameras at a garage sale and put them up to 'catch the damn gnomes that kept ruining the landscaping he worked so hard on'. Harry taught him how they worked and he was simply delighted to have such a fancy piece of Muggle technology in his own home.

The tapes hadn't caught much, but there was one frame with a clear picture of one of the man's faces. He took off his hat, which had been burnt in the fire, which revealed his face: young, brutish, and round. He didn't look familiar, but Ron and Harry both said they would get the image to the Ministry for widespread distribution, and they would get a name soon enough.

Harry scheduled a meeting first thing in the morning with the Minister and various other higher-ups. She Flooed home early to change into more professional clothes and met Harry and Ron at the top level of the Ministry in a large room with a long marble conference table. The room filled quickly with the other Aurors, some men, some women, some old, some young. Each one of them, however, had a single trait in common: the grave look etched onto their faces. She recognized a few familiar faces from functions or parties, but most of them were strangers. Hermione sat straight up in her seat, knee bouncing anxiously as each seat was filled and the Aurors began whispering, occasionally looking over at her with a questioning look. For a short time after the war she was renowned as a war heroine, but her reputation faded as quickly as it came, overshadowed by her two Auror friends.

Kingsley was the last to arrive at the meeting, and when he did, everyone stood. Hermione was the last to rise, unfamiliar with the Ministry's traditions.

"Thank you," he said, and everyone sank back into their seats. He positioned himself at one end of the long table and sighed deeply. "We have all gathered here today to discuss the incident that occurred last night, Sunday the thirtieth of August, at the Weasley residence. With us today are Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley, two of our own who were present at the attack, and Hermione Granger, who was also a witness."

Everyone's gazes turned to rest on Hermione, who felt small and unimportant amongst all the Aurors. She was dress in her work best—a sharp blazer and pencil skirt underneath her nicest professional robes. Her hair was pulled tight into a bun and she knew she was certainly dressed the part of someone worthy of being amongst the wizarding world's top police force. But she was used to being the subject of children's gazes, not those of full-grown, stern adults.

"First, we are going to review the details of the event, and hopefully gather as accurate an account of what occurred as possible," Kingsley continued. "Mr. Weasley, I believe you have some material ready to present?"

Ron nodded, stood, and walked briskly to the end of the room next to Kingsley. Hermione watched, surprised and impressed, as Ron began an official account of what had happened, complete with a three-dimensional diagram conjured from his wand. She had never seen him stand with such poise and confidence; this was certainly not the same boy she met at Hogwarts so many years ago. He spoke without stuttering, he held his gaze strong and secure, and his voice didn't waver a bit as he recalled his own home being set ablaze. Perhaps she was wrong in thinking that he and Harry went to bed with no issue. He had to have spent all night working on his speech.

Each Auror had time to ask questions or add comments, as well as to discuss the possible identities of the perpetrators during the meeting. They passed around copies of the security camera photo, but none of the Aurors recognized the picture. Kingsley promised to put up posters that evening with a reward for any useful information. Hermione, against her instinct, remained silent until the conversation turned to the lightning bolt that had been burned into the Weasley's lawn. The rest of the room agreed the hooded men were Death Eater sympathizers who were using Harry's scar as a way to mock him. But Hermione had spent all night going over the details of what she had seen, and she had a different theory.

"I don't think they were Death Eaters," she said.

The room fell silent and every Auror turned to her, slightly aggressive, obviously uncomfortable with an outsider in the room. Kingsley raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"

"No," she continued, voice steady. "They were hooded men, but they were dressed completely in white. The Death Eaters had an intense loyalty to Voldemort and would never have perverted his traditions. Plus, we know that any remaining Death Eaters retreated into hiding. It would be ridiculous for them to try to band together again. On top of that, there was something off about the lightning bolt."

She pulled out her wand and cast a smoky replica of the mark they saw outside the Burrow. "The symbol is similar to Harry's scar, but note the small difference in how many times the lightning bolt zig-zags. Harry's scar does it only once, but this mark is twice. It's also much thicker—if they wanted to replicate Harry's scar exactly, the burn in the grass would have just been a thin line. But the mark we saw was much thicker."

Kingsley cocked his head thoughtfully. "So what do you think these differences signal, if anything at all?"

"I can't be sure without more time to research the details properly, but my theory is that this was a warning signal. They are clearly sending a message to Harry, but they didn't come to hurt him. They had uninhibited access to Harry, who was unarmed, but they didn't kill him. Instead, they set the house on fire and fled. Those aren't the actions of Death Eaters."

"She has a point there," one young, softer-looking woman said. "Voldemort's followers were nothing if not devoted to tradition. I think we should go through our records, find anything with similarities to this case, and see if we can make any connections. In the past, terror attacks like these ones are rarely singular."

The Aurors dived back into conversation and Hermione leaned back in her chair. Ron whispered in her ear: "That was brilliant. I'm telling you, Hermione, you belong here. Governing."

The meeting lasted another two hours. Afterwards, Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Kingsley stayed back.

"I'm famished," Ron said, rubbing his stomach. "Want to grab lunch?"

"Sure," agreed Harry.

Hermione stood to leave with them, but Kingsley stopped her. "Actually, Miss Granger, can I keep you for a moment longer?"

"Of course," she said. "I'll catch up with you two later." Harry and Ron waved and left the room, which was now intimidatingly empty. Kingsley's voice echoed against the thick walls.

"I wanted to talk to you about your upcoming travels."

Hermione beamed. "You know, I haven't yet had the opportunity to properly thank you for that. I'm very excited to get started."

"No need, Miss Granger, it is I who should be thanking you for accepting. The work you will be doing is invaluable. But actually, I wanted to speak with you about a significant change I have to make concerning your trip."

Hermione raised her brows. His tone was wary, like he was about to deliver bad news. "What happened?"

"Taking into account what happened last night, and the fact that it is of our expert opinion that it will not be an isolated event, I have decided to assign an Auror-in-training to accompany throughout your trip. Something of a bodyguard, not because I think you can't take care of yourself, but because we need to have another point of contact between you and the Ministry. It's also a liability on our part if you were to be harmed."

Hermione bristled. "I would think that I've proved my ability to fend for myself." She couldn't deny that after the attack, she was feeling extra on edge, but she spent seven years of her life on edge and survived.

"I don't meant to belittle you or make you think we believe you incompetent. The fact of the matter is, you will be travelling on the Ministry's galleon, and it is our responsibility and duty to keep our employees safe." Kingsley looked at her seriously. "This is non-negotiable."

She weighed her options in her head—she had already quit her job, this was a trip she had been excited about for weeks, and she had met some of Harry and Ron's co-workers before. Outside of a formal work environment, they were nice enough people. "If it's a must," she sighed. "When will I meet this person?"

Kingsley immediately shifted his gaze to the door. "Well, he's outside right now, but I wanted to tell you to keep an open mind before you meet him. Remember that we would never pair you with someone we didn't trust or anyone we thought might hurt you."

Hermione knit her brows. His tone wasn't positive. "Who is it?"

"We're trying to keep all of our trained veteran Aurors close right now, and we can't afford to send any of them with you," he continued. "I just ask that you keep an open mind, and only ask for a replacement if you _really_ need one…"

"Kingsley, who is it?" said Hermione sharply. Her mind flashed through a few faces of Ministry workers she couldn't stand: Missy, a hopeful intern who yapped at Harry's heels like a puppy desperate to please, Jeremy, the young man who failed Auror training twice and always had a slimy comment to make on Hermione's arse whenever she visited her friends on their lunch break. She crossed her fingers and hoped for someone else.

"I was warned you wouldn't take well to the choice, but we took this matter seriously, and picked someone we thought would perform his duties well. He's the top of his class, really a fantastic wizard—"

"Kingsley, stop stalling. Tell me who it is!"

The minister walked to the conference room door and opened it hesitantly. The thick marble creaked sideways to reveal a tall man dressed in sharp gray robes, his face thin, pale, pointed. Hermione turned white.

" _No_."

"Hello, Granger. Long time, no see."

* * *

"This is _unacceptable_! Nowhere in my contract did I consent to be escorted for three months by _Draco Malfoy_." Hermione was whisper-yelling at Kingsley in the Ministry hallway while Malfoy watched just a few yards away. She knew he could probably hear them, but she'd thrown tact to the wind. Her hair was slowly unwinding from its bun and sticking up at odd angles matching her raging mood. "There must be someone else. There _has_ to be."

Hermione hadn't even known that Malfoy was working at the Ministry, much less at the Auror department with Harry and Ron. The last she had heard about any of the Malfoys was when Lucius died two years ago in Azkaban. Neither of her closest friends had mentioned their childhood nemesis from a Death Eater family was now their colleague.

"There normally would be other options, but we need all of our senior members present." Kingsley was speaking in a low whisper, trying to draw attention away from Hermione's hysteria. "Let me express that I sympathize with your feelings. I deliberated hard on this issue and I understand the negativity that you rightfully associate with Mr. Malfoy. But ultimately, it is in the best interest of our heavily overworked Auror department to choose him to travel. He's still in training, so we can afford to let him go with you."

"I just…" she looked bitterly at the Malfoy, who was pretending not to listen to their conversation. "I don't know if I can trust him."

"I understand that completely. Be rest assured that he would not be anywhere near the Ministry's work if he hadn't proven his loyalty to our causes and expressed remorse for his childhood actions. Mr. Malfoy has been nothing but stand-up in every way and has been incredibly patient with all of our background screenings. He has voluntarily undergone Legilimency and has been questioned under Vertitaserum countless times. While his past may be unclean, his present is pristine, and we are trying our best as both a society and a department to move forward with trust and forgiveness."

Hermione tried to listen to the reason in Kingsley's argument, but she was struggling to think rationally.

"Why don't you have lunch right now and talk things out," he offered. "If after speaking to Mr. Malfoy you still feel uncomfortable, we can discuss alternative options. Although I must warn you, I can't guarantee that there _will_ be alternative options."

Hermione pressed her lips together tightly and stared Kingsley in the eye. "Do you promise me that you trust him? With your own life?"

There was no hesitation in Kingsley's reply. "With my life."

She let out a breath he hadn't realized she was holding. He was right, it would be a display of intolerance to not give Malfoy a chance, no matter how much it might disgust her. "Okay," she said in a clipped tone. "I'll go to lunch with him."

"Thank you very much Ms. Granger. I hope you find him to be a changed man."

The moment Kingsley left the hall, Hermione turned on Malfoy with a stern finger held up. "I'm giving you one warning now—any funny business, any derogatory comments, anything that could even be _construed_ as disrespectful or threatening and I will hex your dick off and have you fired faster than you can figure out how you're going to piss without a penis."

Malfoy was slightly taken aback, but quickly straightened himself up. Standing tall, he had a good eight or nine inches on Hermione's small frame. "I'm not going to hurt you, Granger." His voice was slow and measured. She could tell he was trying to strike a balance between respectful enough to avoid being fired, and pointed enough to assert his dominance. It was a careful game of power he was playing, but she didn't want any part of it.

"Good," she said sharply. "Let's go get lunch, then."

As they walked to the cafeteria, Hermione took note of the way Malfoy carried himself. He looked nothing like how she remembered—the Malfoy she knew was thin with slicked back hair and a pompous way of swinging his shoulders while he walked. This Malfoy was older, body filled out, hair cut shorter and swept over to the side. He was tall, very tall, and carried himself with a sense of humility that was in stark contrast to the Slytherin boy she remembered. He was still proud, but he wasn't superior. He knew his place.

What was most different was Malfoy's face: he still had his signature smirk, but his eyes were lined with dark circles and his cheeks were gaunt, as if he hadn't slept in several days. While Harry and Ron were in Auror training, they sometimes went days without sleeping or eating a proper meal. Perhaps he was suffering the same circumstances.

"How long have you been working here?" she asked him curtly.

"It'll be… six months next week, I believe."

Six months… That was twice the length of normal Auror training. She frowned. "Harry and Ron didn't mention you were in Auror training."

"Trouble in friendship paradise?" he asked. "Makes sense, the two of them hardly see me. My training is taking twice the normal amount of time because of all the background work the department did to make sure I wasn't going to murder them all when they weren't looking."

The cafeteria was busy, so they picked up plastic-wrapped sandwiches and settled at a table in the far corner, away from the noise and bustle of the other Ministry employees. The calm, polite way he was acting made her suspicious, but she reminded herself to give him a fair chance. It was more than he ever gave her, but she prided herself on being the better person.

When they sat down, Hermione pulled a file out of her bag and handed Malfoy a copy of her travel itinerary. "So, I'm leaving a week from today and going straight to Paris for—"

"What, no small talk?" Malfoy interrupted.

"What?"

"No 'How have you been?' No 'It's been so long.' Nothing?"

She turned her gaze back to the papers, annoyed. "I don't care how you've been, and you don't care how I've been. This is a meeting between two work professionals to see if we would be compatible on a professional level."

"Humor me. How have you been?" Draco was picking the tomatoes out of his sandwich with his fingers and stacking them on a napkin.

Hermione let out a short breath. "I _was_ doing wonderfully. I quit my job at Hogwarts to take this opportunity, but the excitement I had was quickly robbed from me when I found out you'd be joining me in my travels."

Malfoy ignored her disparaging comment. "What did you teach at Hogwarts? History? That's boring enough for you to love."

"I taught Magical Law and Justice." Malfoy's tomato slices were soaking through his napkin, irritating Hermione. She flicked her wand and made them disappear.

"You seem tense," observed Malfoy with a smirk.

"I wonder why." She took a bite of her sandwich, which was dry. "How have _you_ been?"

"I've had a rather shit year, myself. Finally got my foot in the door here, struggled through double training, and just when I thought I was finished, my boss comes in and tells me I have one final assignment before I'm through, and that's to babysit you for three months."

"You'll be pleased to know that I don't need a sitter. You're more than free to spend as much time away from me as possible."

Malfoy waggled his plastic cafeteria fork in the air. "Ah, ah, ah. Not happening. I have worked too damn hard to get to this point. I'm going to do my job."

Hermione was confused by his seemingly sincere dedication to the job. "Why are you even doing this? Becoming an Auror?"

"I don't really feel as if you're privileged enough to know such a personal piece of information." Hermione glared, knowing he was being elusive just to irritate her. "Trust me, Granger. I have better things to do with my life now than come up with elaborate plans to infiltrate the Ministry and kill you."

"But you're not too busy to irritate me?"

He smirked. "I'll never be too busy for that."

She leaned back in her chair and looked him up and down. There was nothing _malicious_ in the way he was acting. He was just being irksome. "I really want to go on this trip, Malfoy."

"I know."

"And I don't think Kingsley is going to let me go unless you come with me."

"It appears that way."

"I really, really care about what I do. You might not understand what that feels like—genuinely caring about something—but trust me when I say it's a powerful thing. I want to make a positive change in the Ministry, and I need you to promise that you won't stand in the way of that."

Malfoy licked his lip carefully and set his food down, looking at her square in the eye. His gray irises were hardened and heavy, much like most of the eyes that had lived through the war were. She held his gaze and jutted her chin slightly, unwilling to let him make her feel inferior.

"You make a grave miscalculation in assuming I am incapable of caring. In fact, I care quite a bit, just maybe not about the things you do. Either way, I am entirely capable of empathizing with how you feel, and I can promise you I will not stand in the way of your work. I may irritate you—it's a little amusing, you get all shrill—but I really do have better things to do with my time than ruin your life, Granger."

Hermione bit her lip and squinted at him as she tried to decide if she should trust him or not. But then she thought of all the travel books she'd purchased and all the itineraries she'd created, and she knew she would have to compromise.

"Fine," she said, extending a hand across the table for him to shake. He smirked and for a moment she thought he might not accept, that he might make a remark about dirty blood. But instead he grasped her hand firmly and nodded.

"Good."

* * *

"I swear to you, Hermione, I have no idea why they'd assign the git to your case. If we had known, we would've pushed for someone else," Ron said in earnest. He, Harry, and Hermione were back at the Burrow to help repair some of the leftover damage. Hermione was interrogating the boys about Malfoy's training in the Ministry.

"We were shocked when he first stepped in the door," he continued. "But it wasn't a big deal for us because we almost never see the trainees. Not like he'd say anything anyway, us being the top dogs and everything." He winked at Hermione, who rolled her eyes.

"I'm still upset you didn't tell me."

"I could've sworn we mentioned it," Harry said. "But it honestly wasn't that big of a deal. Lots of Death Eaters' kids switched over. I think there's another in the Auror department, actually, but she's a secretary. When Malfoy first applied I thought he'd never pass training, but apparently he's top of his class."

"I hate to say it, Hermione, but you're might be being a bit paranoid. Everyone in the Ministry goes through the most intensive background checks out there," Ron added.

Hermione sighed, unable to believe that her two friends weren't siding with her. "But do you believe him? Do you think his motives are… pure? He's not just a _child_ of a Death Eater, he _was_ a Death Eater. He has a Mark."

"He was hardly a Death Eater. The idiot failed at every task he was assigned," Harry said with a snort. "Besides, it would be hypocritical to turn him away because of his family's choices. I'm not saying we shouldn't worry about people who have suspicious pasts, but being branded with the Dark Mark at age 16 against your will is not really a sign of pure evil."

"That being said, Malfoy is a giant tosser and it blows chunks that you have to spend the next three months with him," comforted Ron.

"Thank you! Ron is officially the superior friend." Hermione raised her wand over both his shoulder as if to knight him.

Harry shrugged. "I had a feeling you always liked him better. The part where you shagged him every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday for two years was kind of a giveaway."

Hermione turned to Ron, mouth wide in horror. "You told him about our schedule!"

The ginger raised his hands in preemptive self-defense. "He's my best mate!"

Harry laughed as Hermione descended upon her ex-boyfriend with a shower of punches. "To be fair, Hermione, having a schedule was a little strange."

"I hate you both."

Harry continued to laugh as Ginny walked into the room, holding a sleeve of cookies and eating them one by one. "What's so funny?"

Hermione folded her arms and grumbled. "That fact that your husband knew what I was doing every other weekday night for two years of my life."

"Oh, shagging my brother?"

This time, Hermione turned to Harry with her fists full of wrath. "You told _Ginny_?"

"It's the rules of marriage! I had to tell her! _Mercy_!"

Ginny giggled. "It's no big deal. Lots of couples have to schedule intimate time."

"I don't want to talk about it anymore."

"We could go back to talking about Malfoy," Ginny offered.

Hermione groaned and fell back onto the charred couch. "I don't know what I'm going to do."

"Set some ground rules. Compromise. He doesn't get the Auror job without a positive report from you, and you don't get to do your amazing work without his accompaniment. So come up with some agreements and you both win."

Hermione mulled over this suggestion. "That's not a horrible idea."

"Don't let him ruin this for you. You're going to travel and have a wonderful time! You're even going to visit Spain, and maybe see Daniel?" Ginny grinned as Hermione blushed. "Have you told him you'll be in his neck of the woods?"

Hermione had, in fact, written to Daniel and told him she would be visiting Spain in the coming weeks. Something about Charlie and Astoria's teasing made her feel like she had something to prove. "I did, but I also told him it was just a friendly meeting. Nothing intimate," the brunette said sternly.

Ginny winked. "Sure. See, Hermione, you're going to have a fantastic time, and you probably won't even notice the ferret after awhile. You're quite good at drowning out other people's voices."

"That's true," Ron piped in. "I once saw her study through one of the twins' drinking contests. Everyone was screaming _chug_ , and she was just sitting in the corner of the common room, completely oblivious."

"It was a skill I developed out of necessity," responded Hermione. "After years of trying to study with you two idiots by my side, I became quite good at pretending you weren't there."

Ginny smiled. "You'll have fun. And if Malfoy gets to be too much, just Floo us and we'll come to your rescue. I promise to come visit you at least once a week until I get too pregnant to travel regularly."

The brunette sighed and pulled anxiously at a strand of her frizzy hair. She was really going to miss the company of her friends. "I guess."

* * *

 **A/N: Trying to figure out if I should post once or twice a week. We'll see how long it takes me to go back and edit each chapter…**

 **Again: disclaimer that this is not supposed to be some grand masterpiece. If you find any errors, please tell me!**

 **-potato.**


	3. Ground Rules

_a/n: totally wasn't planning on posting again so soon, but the amount of support i got was huge (really wasn't expecting 60+ followers already) so here we are! thanks_

 **Chapter Three: Ground Rules**

Draco Malfoy was not looking forward to the next three months of his life.

When he first came to the Auror department after a year practically living like a hermit abroad, he wasn't expecting to even get through the front door of the Ministry. His goal was to get a job, and while a career as an Auror would be the most engaging one, he would've settled for a position stuffing envelopes on the first floor of the Ministry if he had to. And while his interview wasn't warm or welcoming by any means, the heads of the training department treated him fairly. There were two heads: Regina, a tall woman with a blonde bob that never had even a single hair out of place, and Antonio, a laid-back younger man with tan skin and a toothy smile. Together, they ran a very effective 'good cop, bad cop' system. After seeing his proficiency with a wand, though, they let him into the program contingent upon his agreeing to the most thorough and extensive background checks known to man.

It was Antonio, luckily, who broke the news to Draco about Hermione.

"Listen, Malfoy," Antonio said as he leaned back in his office chair, his feet propped up on the desk. "We've got this thing going on right now—we're not telling any of the other trainees about this, but since you've been here almost a year, we're letting you in on it."

Draco, who was sitting on the opposite side of the desk, leaned forward in his seat. "Go on."

"We've got a situation with Potter." Draco's throat closed up and he grabbed his left forearm instinctively. He'd have felt it if the Death Eaters were back, right? "No, no," Antonio continued. "There's no reason to worry about that right now. We don't know if it's your lot."

"They're not 'my lot'," said Draco sternly.

"Right, right, sorry," the other man said. "Well, we have a situation with one of Potter's friends—Hermione Granger. You'll remember her, of course. She was a big deal after the war until she ran off to Hogwarts where the paparazzi couldn't find her."

Draco did, in fact, remember Hermione Granger quite well. Bushy hair, teeth too big for her mouth, annoying, shrill voice, bossy, and a show-off. Draco harbored many painful memories of Lucius yelling at him for letting a Mudblood beat him in marks. "I remember her," he said coldly.

"Kingsley's hired her to start her own department—some Justice and Equality and Rainbows and Unicorns department—and she's going on an international tour of peace to make contacts and do some Ministry work that no other department could cover," Antonio explained. "To make a long story short, she was there when Potter was attacked and given her history with bringing down the world's most evil forces, we're a wee bit concerned about her safety."

Draco raised one eyebrow. He didn't like where this was heading.

"Now, we don't _actually_ think she's in trouble. I, myself, would shit my pants if I had to face that woman in a duel—I hear she's got a real way with a wand. But it would be really awful PR for the Ministry if a war heroine gets harmed while working for us. So, we're sending her with a travel companion." Antonio held up a hand to silence Draco, who was already objecting. "There will be no arguing over this. We can't afford to send any of our active Aurors, and the others in training are far too inexperienced. I know we've kept you in training for a long time, Malfoy, but I discussed it with Regina, and if you finish this job successfully you will be accepted into active Aurorship."

Draco snapped his mouth shut. He'd been in training for almost a year now with no end in sight. "You swear to me?"

Antonio nodded solemnly. "Even Regina agrees you have proven yourself."

This was the end Draco had been begging for since the day he began training. All he had to do was get through three months of Granger, which surely couldn't be _that_ hard. But he had a hard time believing she agreed to be escorted by a Malfoy. "Did she agree to this?" he asked hesitantly. "She hates me."

"Not yet, but we're going to talk with her."

Draco looked down at his hands. "And the department believes this is the best idea, considering my past?"

Antonio sobered, taking his feet off his desk and looking his trainee directly in the eye. "You told me the day you interviewed that this was your chance to prove you are more than your past. Don't go doubting yourself now."

A week and a day later, after a short and precarious meeting with Granger, Draco was all packed up for a three-month trip across the globe. Hermione sent over her itinerary, which was far more detailed than any itinerary need be—the woman practically scheduled her bathroom breaks. He'd been worried he wouldn't be able to handle her, but the clamorously annoying personality of her youth had calmed to a faint buzz that was easy enough to ignore. Armed with several pairs of earplugs and a hefty stock of anti-headache potions, he could certainly survive three months with Granger.

The day before they were scheduled to leave, Draco stayed late in the office finishing up the last of his paperwork. He thought everyone had left when there was a knock at the door. Weasley was leaning against the doorway to the training office, looking terse.

"Malfoy," he said.

"Weasley." Neither Potter or Weasley had said more than a passing greeting to him since he'd started training. He didn't take this lack of communication for granted—it could have been worse, they could have had him kicked out.

Ron stepped into the office. Draco held back a smirk at the way he tried to puff out his chest to look more intimidating. The man before him wasn't far from the boy he knew in Hogwarts—same freckles, long nose, lanky arms. The only difference was a shorter haircut and hardened eyes that had seen more than they should have. But everyone had those—Draco stared at his every morning in the mirror, wondering if the traumatized glint in his irises would ever disappear.

"I was sent here to communicate with you the latest updates on our most recent case," said Ron.

"I didn't think I was going to receive any confidential information."

"Don't be idiotic. We're not going to send you abroad with our closest friend without all the facts." Ron pulled out a file and handed it over. "We did some back-tracing on the spell that left the lightning bolt burn outside the Burrow. It took twice as long to find a match because we had to go through domestic _and_ international wand records, but we finally found someone."

Draco fingered through the pages inside the file. There was a photo of a young man with buzzed hair and thick eyebrows posing outside of a cathedral. "He's not English?"

"No, Irish. Goes by Trentin Rewall. I know that back-tracing spells isn't 100% accurate, but we also caught a photo of one of the attackers and the faces match. It's definitely him. We're currently in the process of tracking him down."

"I've ever heard of him."

"Wouldn't expect you to. No prior record, no siblings, and both parents are Muggles."

Draco looked at the man curiously. "Why would a muggle-born be attacking you lot?"

"That would be the question of the hour." Ron ran a hand through his hair. "Look, this confirms that these people are international threats, which brings me to the other reason I'm here."

Draco leaned back in his seat and cocked an eyebrow. "Come to remind me not to kill Granger?"

Ron scowled, not finding his comment amusing. "I think that goes without saying. I want you to know that Hermione is a stubborn woman. She's not going to think she needs your help, and for the most part, she doesn't. She's the smartest person I know and she can take care of herself. But it's always good to have another pair of eyes on things."

Draco fought the urge to roll his eyes. "Yes, Weasley, I know."

"I know Harry and I haven't made an effort to get to know you or find out why you even joined the Auror program. For obvious reasons, I want to spend the least amount of time around you as possible. But you're going to be with Hermione, and I need your word that you'll give nothing but your best effort to keep her safe." Ron's eyes were burning, his brows furrowed, his chin high. Draco knew what that look was—he loved her. Were the two of them still together? He couldn't imagine someone as sharp-witted and clever as Granger sticking around someone as simple as Weasley for the long haul. Both of them were equally obnoxious, though. Maybe they found common ground in their unpleasantness.

"You have my word," promised Draco. It was his job to make sure Granger didn't die, and damn it all if he wasn't good at his job.

Ron stared him down one last time before turning to leave, but for reasons unknown to him, Draco stopped him. "Wait."

Ron paused and turned around. "Yeah?"

"You should know that I'm not here—at the Auror department—for malicious reasons." The words left his lips before he could consider why he was even saying them.

Ron let out a short laugh, as if amused by his former enemy's desire to defend himself. "Glad to hear it, Malfoy."

* * *

As per Granger's very specific instructions, Draco arrived at his new travel partner's apartment at 8:55 the morning they were to leave. However, instead of using the Floo as she requested, he apparated straight into her living room with a loud crack that made Hermione, who was brewing tea in the kitchen, jump in fright.

"I told you to use the Floo!" she scolded, reminding him of Professor McGonagall. She'd spent far too long being a professor, she was already morphing into an old hag.

"I wanted to make sure I was on time," Draco said. He looked her up and down: blue sweater, gray pants, hair tied up in a complicated bun. She was no longer an ugly duckling, but by no means was she a white swan either. She was somewhere in between—maybe a dove. Or a crow. No, definitely a crow, those things never shut up. By the door he saw four giant suitcases lined up neatly. "How much did you pack? Surely someone like _you_ can't have piles of fancy clothing."

"I require a lot of books," she said, ignoring his rude comment. She looked down at his single briefcase. "Where are your things?"

"I'm a light traveller."

"You can't _possibly_ have everything you need in there."

"I quite _possibly_ can," he said, imitating her high-pitched voice. "Don't you mind me, Granger. I have everything I need."

Hermione swallowed her retort and washed it down with her morning tea. Draco examined her living room as she did one last go-around of her flat. It was a small, cozy place with very minimalist decor. In fact, she really didn't have _anything_ in the room besides furniture, a bookshelf, one of those Muggle moving-picture devices, and a glass display case with some photos and magical trinkets.

He went to go touch a levitating silver ball when Hermione came back and smacked his hand away. "Don't go touching things that aren't yours." She grabbed her suitcases and nodded at a stuffed teddy bear on the couch. "That's the Portkey."

"Am I allowed to touch that?" Hermione glared at him, grabbed the bear and his arm, and suddenly they were spinning, spinning, spinning… _wham_.

They landed with a thud in the large, ornate foyer of _La Maison de Aubrianne_. Hermione clung to her suitcases, which were falling over one another. Draco watched in amusement, making no attempt to assist her.

"Miss Granger?"

A short, heavily mustached man wearing a gold bowtie and a maroon vest was standing before them, beaming brightly. "Yes?" Hermione said, panting slightly as she tried to collect her things.

"We've been awaiting your arrival. Welcome to La Maison de Aubrianne." He swung his arm out ceremoniously, inviting them to take a proper look at the hotel. It reminded Draco of the many pureblood houses he attended parties at in his youth—gaudily decorated but undeniably beautiful. There were several other witches and wizard mulling about the foyer, including a feather-hatted woman checking in with a large fluffy cat at her heel, an old man with carefully combed hair musing a newspaper, a middle-aged couple dripping in jewels and furs.

The mustached man turned to Draco and his grin melted into a tight grimace. "And you must be Mr. Malfoy." Draco gave a tight-lipped smile in response.

"My name is Remi, and I am here to ensure your stay with us is nothing short of perfect. Please, if you'll follow me, I'll show you to your room." He waved his wand and Hermione's luggage disappeared. "I'll be waiting for you in your room," he reassured. Draco sneered—obviously nothing had changed since Hogwarts. She was still like royalty because of her association with Potter.

Remi walked the pair down a red and gold hallway with towering Renaissance-style paintings. The ceilings were tall and their footsteps echoed as they walked. "Every morning, breakfast will be sent you to in your room. You will have access to our library, indoor swimming pool, and recreational facilities. A private conference room is available upon request."

"I can't believe this," Hermione said breathlessly. "I didn't expect anything so… spectacular."

Remi looked confused. "You're Hermione Granger. We wouldn't dream of providing anything but the very best for you."

Hermione flushed and Draco scoffed, which he covered up with a grunt. She smiled smugly. "Don't be jealous."

"Right here is your room," Remi said, reaching the end of the hall. He handed her a pair of golden keys. "I'll let you settle in. Don't hesitate to ring the bell by the bed if you need anything. Our elves are more than happy to help—and they're very well compensated, too, so no worries there!"

The room inside was just as showy as the rest of the hotel: there was a plush white couch, an old mahogany desk with fresh quills and parchment ready, and a king-sized bed with tall posts and curtains. Draco dropped his briefcase onto the couch as Hermione was marveled at the antique décor.

"What are you doing?" she asked, her eyes narrowing at his briefcase.

"Settling in."

"In _my_ room?"

He blinked. "Unless my vision has failed me, I don't see another bedroom here."

"But—but—"

"I couldn't possibly bodyguard you properly with a wall in the way." He smirked, relishing in her discomfort.

"But where will you sleep?"

Draco waved his wand and the white couch transformed into a small bed. "Kingsley must not have had time to ask for a bigger room on such short notice."

"But there's only one bathroom," she huffed.

"I know I'm an only child, Granger, but I _do_ know how to share. I'll even put the seat down and everything."

"I don't want to use the same shower as you," she said, her arms crossed and her nose scrunched up like she'd smelled something bad.

He breathed in slowly, trying to keep himself from saying something offensive. "I assure you, I'm very clean. My parents house trained me and everything; I promise I won't be pee on the floor."

Hermione rolled her eyes, sat on the edge of the bed, and eyed the room carefully—it wasn't nearly as spacious sharing with another person. "I want to set some ground rules," she requested.

"Ground rules?" Merlin, the woman had a obsessive-compulsive need to delineate everything in life.

"Yes. I think it would be wise to set down some ground rules for ourselves in advance. Things like personal boundaries, methods for conflict resolution, time when I can be alone, words that are off limits…"

Draco's lip twitched slightly at her last suggestion, knowing it was in reference to his old habit of calling her _Mudblood_. "I can assure you that I've stopped using derogatory language."

Hermione sniffed. "Well, I didn't know that."

"I'm not _evil_ ," he said, his voice softening for just a moment before hardening again. "And I would appreciate you for not treating me as if I am."

"Fine. I'll put that down on the list of rules."

"Also, I want you to stop looking like you've smelled something horrible whenever I speak."

"I can't help habit," Hermione said in a tone that was cattier than he expected. For a moment he fought a smirk—she had bite. Now that he thought about it, she did throw him a few good insults when they were children.

"Then I suppose I won't be able to help it when I have to perform physical pat-downs and private interrogations on everyone you meet for work. You know, for safety reasons," he countered, wondering if he could coax another lash from her.

Her eyes narrowed. "You will _not_ sabotage my work. I happen to know that you need to succeed at this stupid bodyguard job if you want to be an Auror, and I'm not above leaving you a scathing review when we get back if you get in the way of my job."

"I don't _need_ you, Granger. If anything, you need me. I was briefed on what they found, and I know just as well as you that something—someone—is out to get you. You might believe you're fine on your own, but the Ministry assigned you a guard for a reason."

Something he said struck a chord with her, and for a moment the fire in her eyes actually frightened him. She looked as if she might punch him in the face, but then she took a deep breath instead. "Look," she said slowly. "This is why we need to set some ground rules. So we're not jumping at one another's throats all the time."

Draco sat down on his bed, curious what it was he said that pushed the wrong button. "That's fair," he said.

"I think we should start with the body guarding business, since that's the reason you're here. I'll admit that an extra pair of eyes is always useful, but I think I'll go mad if I don't ever get to be alone. I want three hours to myself every day."

He scoffed. "Absolutely not. Have you any idea what could happen in three hours?"

"I'm not an infant being left alone in a room with sharp edges—"

"Right, it's much worse, you'll be left alone in a strange place with people out there who want to hurt you! I know I'm not your biggest fan, but I don't want to see you dead. And it's my arse on the line if something happens to you."

"Okay," she grumbled. "Two hours."

"One," he countered firmly.

"Fine." She pulled over some of the parchment the hotel provided and wrote it down.

"We have to write these down?" he asked incredulously.

She looked at him as if this was the most ridiculous question. "Of course. If it's not documented and signed, how are we supposed to refer back to it in moments of conflict?"

This time he openly rolled his eyes, but she didn't care. He noticed how neat her script was, very small, neat, and loopy, almost cursive but not quite. He was reminded of the private tutor his mother hired to teach him cursive when he was six. " _A proper wizard never writes in print_ ," she'd say.

"I'd like to submit something," he said, his mind still on his mother.

"Hm?"

"No discussion about my parents. Ever."

She looked mildly surprised by the request, but she wrote it down without question anyway. "Done. I want you not to refer to me as a Mudblood, and to refrain from other offensive language unless it's warranted."

He rose an eyebrow. "Warranted?"

"As in, if I'm being unnecessarily bossy, then you can call me bossy."

He chuckled, surprised. She was logical to a fault. "Fair."

"I also want a promise that you won't constantly put down Harry and Ron."

"I'll try. I don't want you touching my things."

"Same for mine." She looked around the room again, noting how small it was. "In fact, I think we should divide up this room, so you can have your space and I'll have mine." She raised her wand and a thin line of tape slithered out and divided the room in half along the floor.

He frowned. "How am I supposed to reach the loo?"

She looked down—the door to the bathroom was, in fact, only accessible on her side. She waved her wand again and a small pathway was drawn in tape from his side to the bathroom. He gave her a look. "Are you serious? I'm supposed to walk between those lines only?"

"Yes."

"You're batshit," he muttered, but she didn't seem to hear.

"Anything else you'd like to add?" she asked, peering up above the parchment.

He thought briefly. "Not at the moment."

"I can't think of anything either, but we'll make it a living document. We can edit it later as needed." She crossed her legs and handed over the parchment. "Please sign and date on the line I drew."

As ridiculous as it made him feel, Draco signed the paper, and Hermione offered her hand for a friendly shake. He smirked. "Do we have to? I just washed my hands."

Giving him a look that could kill, Hermione turned her handshake into a middle finger and then stalked off into the bathroom. He cocked his head curiously as he watched her walk away. She was actually entertaining when she was angry—her hair came loose and frizzed around her face, her eyes narrowed into small slits, her nose scrunched up, and her lips pursed, giving her a startling resemblance to a mouse. She was also rather fun to argue with. She wasn't afraid to poke him where it might hurt.

He sighed and fell back onto his cramped couch-bed. Maybe the next three months wouldn't be as unbearable as he initially assumed. _Maybe_.

* * *

 **A/N: This chapter and the next aren't my _favorite_ , so I'm probably going to post the next one tomorrow just to get it out of the way. It's necessary to lay the groundwork for the story, though, so bear with me!**

 **-potato.**


	4. A Celebrity

_a/n: this is my least favorite of all the chapters (and as it stands this story is 33 chapters, so that says a lot). i'd say to skip it, but then you might get confused later... or you can skip it if you want. i won't be mad lol_

 **Chapter Four: A Celebrity**

Hermione's first official task on the job was to meet with the Youth for Equality committee at the French Ministry of Magic. The committee had been trying to make contacts at the British Ministry for months, but no one knew exactly what department they would match up best with until Hermione came along. She was glad to begin her trip with children, as they were a much kinder and more familiar audience.

Despite Draco's grumpiness the previous day, the pair had an easy morning—neither spoke to the other as they washed, dressed, and ate breakfast. She could see the next few months going smoothly so long as they didn't acknowledge one another at all.

This brief hope was crushed when Hermione pulled her one and only blazer over a pale pink button-up and a skirt that was slightly too tight on her. Draco caught her staring at her butt in the mirror, trying to figure out if her panty line was showing, and he reassured her: "You're good."

"Don't look at my arse," she snapped, immediately yanking her blazer down to cover as much of her butt as she could. He rolled his eyes.

"Not much to look at, anyway."

He wore a black collared shirt and black pants, which made him appear twice as pale as normal. She felt strange being escorted while she walked—it wasn't like walking _with_ someone, where you stand beside them and step in tandem. Instead, Draco stayed a foot behind her, where he was better able to see everyone around them. It made her feel incredibly uncomfortable and wary, like she was being followed.

The entrance to the French Ministry was in a dilapidated public bathroom labeled 'Under Repair'. Her notes instructed her to tap the left sink handle three times with her wand.

"I'll do it," Draco said sternly. He pulled out his wand and tapped the handle lightly, as if it was a potential hazard to her safety and might explode if hit too hard.

The sink handle grew and morphed into a door handle, which he grasped. "Ready?"

"Of course."

She squinted as she stepped through the door. The French Ministry was vast: there were floor-to-ceiling windows that let in massive amounts of natural sunlight that sparkled and shined upon the largest chandelier Hermione had ever seen. The entryway was circular and there appeared to be several other doorways dotting the room through which other smartly dressed witches and wizards were entering. "They really don't spare any expense here, do they?" she said in awe.

"We need room 814, on level eight," Draco replied, all business.

"That way." Hermione pointed to a gold elevator that somehow looked elegant and not as obnoxious as Hermione would have expected a gold-painted elevator to look. The inside was quite spacious, and when they entered, the other Ministry workers in the corner of the elevator began to whisper to each other.

"They're talking about you," Draco murmured into Hermione's ear, and she flushed.

"They are _not_." She tried her best to ignore their stares, which were practically burning holes into the back of her head, and she silently thanked the gods when the elevator finally reached the eighth floor. However, the sustained stares and whispers only continued as she walked down the hall towards room 814. Hermione practically threw herself into the conference room, happy to escape the strangers, only to be greeted with a round of admiring applause.

"Oh, please don't—" Hermione tried to stop the clapping, but the group of young students before her was far too star-struck to care.

An older woman in the back of the room, presumably the Ministry sponsor in charge of the group, came forward to shake Hermione's hand. Her accent was thick and reminded Hermione of Fleur and her Beauxbaton friends. "Miss Granger, we are so honored to be here with you today. Thank you so much for taking time out of your busy schedule to meet with us."

Hermione flushed even more red. What did these people think she did all day? They were certainly under the impression that she was far more important than she actually was.

She tried to smile in the most honest way possible. "I'm honored to be here. And please, call me Hermione."

The woman beamed. "I'm Marissa Henisky, and this is the Youth for Equality committee. They are a collection of the brightest and most dedicated young wizards and witches in all of France, and they are very excited to be able to speak with you today."

Hermione turned back to the group. They were seated around an ovular table, at the head of which was an empty seat saved for her. All of them were looing at her with respectful admiration, an attitude her Hogwarts students never had. Then again, Hogwarts students were known to lack the discipline that other wizarding communities instilled in their children; they were more relaxed, more humorous, more apt to talk back to their professors. These students were the exact opposite, rigid, proper, and poised, and the aura was intimidating.

"Hello, I'm Hermione Granger," she said in a voice that was much squeakier than normal. She heard Draco try to muffle a snort behind her. "That's Draco Malfoy. He's my… assistant." Draco made a small noise of protest, but fell silent when she glared.

"I came here today with a brief presentation on some of my work, to speak briefly on a few of my personal experiences, and to gather your input on transnational magical justice. I want to reserve most of our time together to hear from you, answer questions, and discuss some of the wizarding world's most pressing contemporary issues." Hermione pulled a small metal box out of her purse and tapped it with her wand. The box sprang to life and levitated in the air. A shutter opened on one of its sides and it began projecting a hologram-like screen in the air above the table. Silvery box letters spelled 'Magical Justice and Wizarding Politics" on the screen. The students' eyes were wide in fascination; they had never seen such a device before. In fact, it was one of Hermione's own inventions, inspired by Muggle projectors. She grew tired of blackboards and chalk whilst teaching and decided wizarding classrooms needed an upgrade.

With every flick of her wand, a new screen popped up in the air. Hermione lectured about the papers she published detailing the various Ministry failings that left England vulnerable to infiltration by dark wizards. She discussed her brief fling with teaching and her decision to leave the classroom to pursue policy. She shared her experience researching and writing books on wizarding democracy and the long journey towards true equality that the wizarding world had just begun. Towards the end, she told stories of her SPEW days and how they helped her find what she was really passionate about. The students laughed when she described how her house-elf liberation movement's biggest protestors were the elves themselves.

"It was through that experience that I discovered what I had the most passion for," Hermione recalled warmly. "It was magical justice, but more specifically, it was magical justice for those who are voiceless. There are so many members of society who are marginalized by a system governed strictly by wizarding norms, and unfortunately it usually takes an individual from a position of privilege to speak on behalf of those who cannot stand up for themselves."

The students listening intently to her words, engaged by the genuine fervor in her voice. At the end, she was met with applause even louder and more embarrassing than the first round.

"So that's pretty much all I have to say," she said quickly, wanting to halt the clapping. "Now I want to hear from you—what are your goals? Your ideas?"

The round-table discussion started well: the students eagerly debated and discussed different viewpoints and ideologies. Hermione was impressed by their extensive knowledge of Muggle government, something that certainly wasn't covered as much when she was in school. However, the discussion took a turn when a cocky boy with black hair and sharp eyes raised his hand.

"What about the war?" he asked. "Did your heavy involvement with the war affect your political views at all?"

Hermione was taken aback by the forwardness of his question. She had been careful to discuss the effects of the war indirectly during her presentation. The topic was a sensitive one, and she always avoided talking about it if she didn't have to. Marissa noticed her hesitation and spoke up: "Christophe, that's an inappropriate question."

"No, no," Hermione said, not wanting to disregard the boy's question, which she considered to be valid if not slightly insensitive. "It's okay. The war did change me, just as it changed everyone. It made me more… compassionate. Thoughtful. We sometimes forget to imagine situations in a complex way. We live in a world of gray, you know? Things are not black and white. We should always strive to understand why things like a war happen. So now, I think before I leap. I always imagine the consequences to my actions."

"What about the recent attack on you and Harry Potter?" Christophe continued. "How do you feel about that?"

Hermione saw Draco tense in his seat from the corner of her eye. She tried to keep a tight smile. "There is an ongoing investigation with regard to that incident, one that I am not going to discuss. I will not comment on a subject I cannot give accurate information about, and I certainly will not comment on anything irrelevant to our discussion."

Christophe opened his mouth again, but Marissa cut him off sharply with a hiss. He sunk into his seat, staring Hermione down. She pretended not to notice and moved on to another question.

The meeting ended a short fifteen minutes later. The students filed out one by one and Marissa shook Hermione's hand again, thanking her over and over for her time and patience. Hermione smiled graciously, thanking her back for the opportunity.

As she was packing up her levitating projector, one last student stayed behind to approach her.

"Miss Granger?"

The girl, who couldn't have been older than fourteen, was short with curly blonde hair that stopped at her shoulders. Her clothes were ill-fitting and not as sharp or fashion-forward as her peers' outfits were. She had a notepad open upon which lines and lines of narrow notes were scribbled. Hermione was reminded of herself at age fourteen and immediately felt a kinship with the girl.

"Yes?"

"I had just a few more questions for you, if you wouldn't mind."

Hermione smiled. "Of course not."

"I was wondering—given that your career path thus far as seen several changes, what long-term goal do you have for yourself? I, myself, am looking forward to a meaningful and impactful career in government, and I was wondering if you had a particular plan in mind?"

Her question was one that Hermione had been asking herself all too often, and one she hadn't yet come up with an answer to. "You know, it's a little embarrassing, but I don't really have a plan right now," she admitted. "I usually do, but I've been learning lately to take things as they come."

The girl frowned. "Would you say that's a result of your… past experiences?"

"Um... I suppose."

The girl leaned it closer and eyed Draco, who was busy inspecting his fingernails in the far corner, and whispered. "I also wanted to say that you're such an inspiration. The ability to work with someone like Draco Malfoy after what happened to you in the past… It's an admirable testament to your ability to forgive and your commitment to equality, even when the same privileges weren't extended to you in the past."

Hermione blinked, taken aback. "I, um, I… Thank you?"

The girl nodded, smiled brightly, and extended her hand. "Thank you again, Miss Granger."

Hermione shook the girl's hand and she took off, running to catch up with the rest of the group. Draco sighed. "Merlin, that took forever. I was going to kill myself if I had to hear the words ' _human rights'_ or _'magical equality'_ again. Are you ready to go?"

Hermione shook her head slightly, trying to refocus herself, still thinking about what the girl said. "Yeah," she said after a moment. "Let's go."

* * *

After their meeting, the pair grabbed sandwiches at a small shop and strolled out into the streets again.

"I was famished," Draco said, groaning as he took a large bite of his sub. "That meeting took forever."

"Get used to it," Hermione said without a hint of compassion. "Look, I really need to go shopping for some new professional clothes. I thought I had more, but I guess I overestimated my wardrobe."

"Good," said Draco, eyeing her outfit. "The ones you're wearing are hideously out-of-date."

Hermione ignored him. "Anyway, you can head back to the hotel and I'll meet you there in a few."

Draco wagged a finger. "No-no. I'm coming with you."

"I get an hour alone every day, that's what we agreed on. I'm invoking my hour."

"Granger, trust me, this is going to take longer than an hour. Look at what you're wearing—there's a hole in the side of your skirt."

Hermione twisted her blazer to the side, trying to cover the small hole, which she had hoped no one would notice. "I—it's—" she spluttered defensively.

But Draco was already walking away and towards a store down the street. As he walked, Hermione couldn't help but notice (to her endless disgust) how well his clothes fit him. She had always thought men's fashion was fairly straightforward, but Malfoy made it look like an art. His shirt was tight in the right places, defining his broad shoulders and chest but loose enough that it wasn't feminine. His pants fit snug around his arse, defining it quite nicely. Hermione hated herself for letting her eyes get anywhere near Draco Malfoy's arse, but she had to admit—the man did know how to dress himself. Reluctantly, she followed him into a small boutique that was intimidatingly clean.

Draco was by the back shelf holding up a delicate white blouse with a thin collar and elegant pearl buttons. " _Avez-vous ceci en une taille supérieure?"_ he said to the shop's only employee.

"You speak French?" asked Hermione, surprised.

"You don't?" he said lazily.

"I do." She took a moment to translate what he said in her mind, and realized he asked the woman for a size medium. "Wait, how do you know what size I wear?"

"I was trained well in the art of gift-giving, which requires knowing how to gauge women's sizes from nothing more than a quick glance. Your waist says small, but your breasts and shoulders say medium."

Hermione crossed her arms over her chest. " _Don't_ talk about my breasts."

The slim, blonde shop employee, who introduced herself as Marie, returned with the blouse and several other articles of clothing. "Should I start a fitting room?" she asked in a heavy accent

"Yes," said Draco.

"Stop speaking for me!" hissed Hermione. She took the clothes from the woman and gave her a tight smile. "Yes, I would like a room, please."

"Try those on and Marie will find you some more pieces." Draco turned to the woman and smiled knowingly. " _Elle a besoin de beaux vêtements. Elle ressemble á une femme sans-abri."_

"I took French in grade school!" Hermione yelled over her shoulder as she stalked off to the fitting room. "I can understand you!"

Once inside the dressing room, Hermione was reminded of the several reasons she didn't go shopping. The lights made her skin appear an unflattering shade of yellow, and the mirror seemed to highlight every insecurity she had on her body: the way her nipples didn't line up quite evenly enough, the baby hairs that grew just under her belly button, the stretch marks that marred the curve of her butt.

She quickly threw on the first blouse and pair of pants to cover her body and was immediately impressed by how they transformed her. Suddenly, she was commanding, powerful, even sexy. The blouse was cut just low enough to flatter her cleavage without being inappropriate, and the pants hugged her hips just right. She pulled up her hair and admired herself: she could rule the world in these clothes. Is this why Ginny enjoyed shopping so much?

"Granger?" Draco's voice, deep and echoing, drifted over the fitting room door.

"I'm still trying the stuff on."

"I have more things for you. And take those pants off, I know you put those on first. You need to wear skirts more often, air everything out down there." Hermione twisted her face in disgust and hoped Marie didn't understand English. The man was downright embarrassing.

They spent next two and a half hours in the store, nagging and arguing the whole time, and practically driving Marie insane. By the end they had a pile two feet high of clothing on the checkout desk.

"Which ones are you buying?" Draco asked.

Each article was nice quality, a few were even designer brands, and thus were quite expensive. While Hermione never wanted for much—the wizarding world paid her, Ron, and Harry back for their wartime efforts with gifts, donations, and even a few advertising gigs Hermione would never live down—she didn't feel comfortable paying so much for clothes. It felt wrong to spend so much money on something as trivial and unimportant as a blouse.

"Um… I think I'll go with these." She separated half the pile. Draco frowned.

"You don't want this?" He held up the first blouse she tried on, the one she liked best. But after looking at the price tag, she knew she couldn't buy it—it felt practically immoral to spend so much on one shirt.

"It didn't fit quite right," she lied.

"That's not true, I saw you in it." He studied her face, and when he realized the true reason, he smirked. "Ah, I see what's going on here." He looked at Marie knowingly. "Granger likes to pretend like she can't afford nice things. It makes her seem more relatable to us common folk."

Marie, a Muggle who also spoke very little English, was confused, obviously not understanding what he meant.

"She's something of a celebrity," Draco continued in an irritating drawl. "But she likes to feel just like the rest of us. No matter, we'll keep pretending like it's a sin for Hermione Granger to buy herself nice things. I'll get the blouse." He placed a shiny credit card on the counter.

Hermione's forehead creased in the center as she frowned.

"Don't think of it as a gift," said Draco, answering her question before she could ask it. "Think of it as a very generous hint to clean yourself up."

She harrumphed, but admittedly felt far more comfortable knowing the gesture was really an excuse to insult her. She wouldn't know how to react if he did something truly kind.

When they finished paying, Hermione watched Draco carefully place his credit card back into his wallet. "How do you know what a credit card is?"

"Part of training."

"It is?" As far as Hermione could remember, the Ministry tried to keep Muggle training to a minimum as to not mix the worlds too much.

"Potter's idea. Said it would foster a respect for their world as well as help us seem legitimate when we're undercover."

The idea definitely sounded like Harry's. He had done a lot of progressive work in the Ministry since becoming a head Auror, much to the older employee's displeasure.

"And what do you think of credit cards?"

He shrugged indifferently. "It's convenient, I suppose. You don't have so many coins jostling around."

"But it's also more dangerous," she pointed out. "Someone could easily steal it and spend more of your money."

"Are you saying something _negative_ about Muggle technology?"

"Are you saying something positive about it?" she countered with a grin. "Careful, Malfoy, you don't want to sully your pristine pureblood reputation."

Draco's expression turned from playful to cold in a second. He shoved his wallet back into his pocket and quickened his pace, leaving her a step behind. "Never mind, Granger."

She furrowed her brow. He was like a moody adolescent, constantly shifting between mildly irritating prat and brooding, hostile enigma. She had half a mind to keep irritating him as revenge for his rude behavior at the shop, but decided she'd be the bigger person. She was Hermione Granger, after all. Like he said, she was something of a celebrity, and she certainly needn't be bothered by the mood swings of Draco Malfoy.

* * *

 **A/N: Should get more interesting from here (; Also sorry for the French, I used Google Translate, try not to be too offended.**


	5. An Olive Branch

_a/n: i'm going to start including specific songs i listened to while writing chapters, because music played a big part in writing this story._

 _this chapter: 'turning tables'/adele_

* * *

 **Chapter Five: An Olive Branch**

Draco Malfoy lived his life on a very particular schedule.

As a child, he woke up every morning at 8 for a long day of tutoring, flying practice, and manners lessons. At Hogwarts, his routine was going to classes, Quidditch training, and then to the Slytherin common room to do homework. As an adult, he went to work, cooked dinner, worked on some of his personal research, and read at least fifty pages of a book before bed. He liked his schedules. He operated well within these schedules. And now, his schedule had fallen to shit.

At six-fifteen a.m., Draco awoke to a loud screeching noise coming from the bathroom, which, after taking a moment to properly shake off his grogginess, he realized was Hermione singing in the shower. At six-twenty-six the bathroom door swung open and a cloud of hot steam smelling faintly of vanilla clouded the room, and by the time he got to the shower, there was no hot water left.

At six-thirty, he was trying his best to prepare himself for the day while Hermione paced back and forth, reading the notes she had in one hand while charming her hair with the other. Apparently it took ten minutes' worth of constant charming for the bush to deflate.

At seven, she informed him that their meeting wasn't until ten.

"Why the bloody hell did you get up so early?" he practically cried.

"I always get up this early."

He fell back onto his bed with a groan. "You're insane."

"Just go get breakfast or something. Entertain yourself," she said dismissively, still focused on her notes.

Draco was not hungry at all, as his stomach was not accustomed to being fed so early in the morning. Instead, he reached into his briefcase, elbow-deep, and pulled out a book.

Hermione looked up at him, surprised. "Did you use an Undetectable Extension Charm?"

"You're familiar?"

"Of course I'm familiar, I used it—" She stopped abruptly. "I've used it on my bags in the past," she finished weakly. She looked curiously at his briefcase, like a child would look at an animal in the zoo. "Yours looks different, though. When I use the charm on small bags, everything gets jumbled up inside."

Draco smiled smugly. Indeed, his version of the charm was one he developed after months of research and practicing. Spell modification and innovation was an expertise of his, a skill he developed in his free time after the war. He'd gotten quite good at it. "I played around with the original incantation and found a way to modify it so there are compartments. No matter how you move the briefcase, nothing inside moves at all."

Hermione's eyes were wide and her mouth open in a small "o". "Can I look?" she asked.

"Hermione Granger, resident know-it-all, wants to admire my work? By all means." He swept out an arm as if presenting his briefcase to a crowd. She looked inside, eyes still wide, and then plunged her hand inside.

"Well, don't go looking through my things, Granger."

"Sorry," she said hastily, pulling her arm back. "I was just—"

"Impressed?" he said with a smirk.

She rolled her eyes. "Surprised. It _is_ fantastic work."

"I'm sure you were too far up your own arse at Hogwarts to notice, but I was something of an excellent student."

She cocked an eyebrow. "Were you really? I must have missed that fact every time I got top scores in class."

"More like too busy riding your high hippogriff to notice I was always right behind you."

"Did we even have many classes together?"

He shouldn't have been surprised she never noticed. Granger was always too preoccupied with her own work and Potter's latest crisis to notice anyone else's successes. She was always with Potter and Weasley—in fact, he couldn't remember a time he saw her talking with anyone else. As much as the other houses poked fun at Slytherins for being a clique, the Potter Pals were a much more exclusive group.

"As much as I would love to reminisce about our schooling days, this book is just begging to be read," he said. He looked up at her hair, which was still quite frizzy in the back. "Also, you really should get back to that bird's nest of yours. It needs more work."

She made a face at him, but then raised her wand and continued the charms. Even she couldn't argue with him about her hair.

* * *

They Apparated from the hotel at nine-fifty and landed in a worn-down alleyway lined with trash cans that couldn't have been emptied for at least a month.

Draco wrinkled his nose at the smell. He hadn't bothered to read the itinerary and had no idea where they were going. "Where are we?"

Hermione pointed ahead to a shabby doorway at the end of the alley. "I was a little off-target."

The doorway was squeezed between an old tattoo parlor and a liquor store and couldn't have been more than a foot wide. Draco had seen several of these before; his father's friends oftentimes used them as secret hideouts. They were small rooms shoved in places you wouldn't expect them to be, like Muggle neighborhoods. Engraved at the top of the door were the words: _Squibs sont les bienvenus ici._ Beneath that was a delicate painting of two doves.

"Squibs?" he asked. "Is that who we're meeting with?"

Hermione shook her head in exasperation. "Didn't you read today's itinerary?"

"Your itineraries could be novels."

"The second-smartest wizard of our generation can't handle a little reading?" she taunted. "I suppose I'll have to summarize for you. This is a safe house for French squibs. Many of them stay here when they have nowhere else to go. We're thinking of expanding the program to England."

She knocked three times and within seconds a woman was standing before them. "Oh, you're here! Please, come in, come in."

The woman was very young, with glowing clear skin and curly red hair. She could have passed for a Weasley, except she was actually very attractive. Her clothes were strange, like wizard's robes but cut much tighter. In her arms was a large plastic bin. "I was just doing some kitchen restocking. We always have to make sure the expired things are taken out." She led the pair into a room with mismatched couches, a television, and a dining table. To the left was a small kitchen and to the right was a narrow hallway. It was cramped and smelled slightly of beans, probably from the old cans.

"Please, sit down," she said as she put down the bin and extended her hand in greeting. She hardly had an accent. "I'm Amelia Trane, the manager here."

Hermione smiled warmly in a strange, artificial way she did with strangers. "It's lovely to meet you," she said. Draco didn't understand how people were able to fake happiness so easily.

Amelia shook her hand and then looked at Draco curiously. "I'm sorry, I wasn't aware Miss Granger would be accompanied today."

"That's just Mal—That's Draco Malfoy," Hermione said. "He's with me for security reasons."

"Oh." Draco could tell how uncomfortable Amelia was with his presence, but he was accustomed to barely-masked disgust and apprehension. He tried to brush it off.

Amelia turned back to Hermione. "Well, can I interest you in some tea? Water? Biscuits?" She gave Draco a look that suggested the offer didn't extend to him.

"Tea would be lovely, thank you," said Hermione.

Amelia stood to get the tea and accidentally brushed Draco's arm in the process. She immediately jumped back as if his skin were poisonous, made a small scoff noise, and gave him a look of pure disgust. Draco clenched his fists and tried to count to ten slowly, a technique he heard was effective in subduing anger. It didn't work. "I need to use the loo," he said, deciding to leave the room before he did something reckless.

"Second door on the right," Amelia said without looking at him.

The bathroom was cramped and smelled of shit mixed with lemon air freshener. His expression in the mirror was twisted in frustration—he could see how someone might be frightened of his sharp eyes and pursed lips. But was she abrasive because he was off-putting, or was he off-putting because she was so abrasive? Either way, he couldn't afford to start a fight. It was only day four of their trip.

With a steady sigh, he splashed water on his cheeks, practiced his best nice face, and went back out. As he turned the corner he heard his name and stopped abruptly, back pressed against the wall.

"…I just don't understand why you'd bring _Draco Malfoy_ here, of all people."

Hermione stuttered, clearly taken aback. "I—Um—He's just my companion for the trip. I didn't have a choice in the matter."

Amelia seemed offended on Hermione's behalf. "You're Hermione Granger, you should always have a choice. And given your blood status, I don't know how you feel safe around him. Those people have a history and I simply can't understand why your Ministry would trust _him_ to protect a Muggleborn. I don't even know how comfortable I am with him here in a place that's supposed to be safe for Squibs."

Draco's face grew hot again. She spoke as if he tortured puppies in his free time. He peered around the corner just slightly, and saw Hermione looking absolutely lost for words. Amelia noticed her discomfort and rushed to defend her words.

"I'm not saying you should fire him or anything, I'm just very hesitant to trust someone with such a sordid history."

"I'm not sure it's your place to be questioning such things." Hermione pressed down her skirt and pursed her lips. "I'll have you know that I would never put myself in a dangerous position."

The heat left Draco's face as quickly as it came. Was Granger defending him?

"I apologize if I've crossed a line," Amelia said in an entirely unapologetic tone. "I just wonder about his motivations."

Draco emerged from his hiding spot and strolled back to his seat casually, pretending he hadn't heard the conversation. Amelia grimaced and put down her teacup. "I think we should get started."

They began with a tour of the center. The kitchen was even more cramped than the small living area. Most of the residents were out for the day seeing friends or running errands, so they got the see the bedrooms, which were mostly bare save for twin beds with white sheets, mismatched dressers, and shabby posters on the wall. Some rooms had two or three beds shoved inside.

"We're way past capacity," Amelia said. "It gets like this right before the school year, when parents find out for certain their kids aren't magical."

The last room actually had a small girl inside, who introduced herself as Lydia. She was only fourteen. Draco hadn't realized that most of their residents were children and he was reminded of a Squib named Samuel born into another pureblood family in their social circle. When Hogwarts letters were delivered and Samuel didn't receive one, Draco never saw him again. Lucius said he was sent to a different school, but now Draco realized it was far more likely that the boy ended up somewhere like here. Abandoned.

"Lydia's parents neglected her care once they realized she wasn't a witch," Amelia explained once the girl was out of earshot. "They sent her to a Muggle boarding school at age ten and simply stopped writing to her. When she tried to get back in contact with her family for the holidays, they didn't answer. She didn't yet feel comfortable in the Muggle world, so she did some research and came to us for help. Luckily, we had room for her to board here until she graduates Muggle school."

Draco felt a pit in his stomach. Even though his outlook changed after the war, he still believed himself to be superior to a Squib—how could they be equals when one could perform magic and the other couldn't? But this… abandoned at age ten? Even he knew how inherently wrong it was.

Hermione shook her head. "It's barbaric."

"It is," said Amelia. "And while the situation has largely improved since the end of the War, many old pureblood families still react negatively to Squibs showing up in their bloodlines. They believe it taints the name." Amelia gave a backhanded glance to Draco, who dug his fingernails into the palm of his hand and tried his best not to yell some choice words at her. But then she continued: "I'm sure _you're_ familiar with this problem."

He bit the inside of his cheek so hard he tasted blood: salty, warm, and metallic. He saw Hermione looking nervously at him, silently begging him not to snap. But then he looked back at Amelia, who was smiling smartly, egging him on. "Is there something you wish to say to me?" he asked icily.

"I don't have any comments to make, but I certainly do have some questions about your… _motivations_." There was venom in her voice.

It wasn't as if Draco wasn't used to hesitation when he met new people. In fact, it would be strange if he was introduced to someone and they _didn't_ look him up and down warily. It was the audacity of this woman to question him so openly, to not even give him a chance even after Granger had defended him that made him furious.

Draco curled his upper lip into a snarl and spat out each of his words with deliberation. "I'm _sorry_ , I should have made my intentions more clear. I'm obviously here to summon Lord Voldemort from the dead, gather up a gang of evil purebloods, and murder all of France's Squibs. It actually wasn't part of the original plan, but now that I think about it, I might just _Avada_ you and Granger while I'm at it."

"I wouldn't be surprised if you did," said Amelia hotly. He could feel her on the edge, just waiting for him to give her a reason to draw her wand. Neither of them even noticed Hermione, whose mouth was agape in shock at their lack of professionalism.

" _Excuse me_ ," she hissed.

Draco tore his fiery eyes of Amelia and onto Hermione. She flinched, and briefly, he could see how the rage etched onto his face scared her. He suddenly became acutely aware of how aggressive his stance was, how tight his snarl was, how much he was feeding in to the exact stereotype Amelia was trying to paint of him. His rage turned inward onto himself, for letting the damned woman prove her point, and for frightening Granger.

His fists clenched so hard they shook. He looked at Hermione, eyes still wide in fear, and at Amelia, lips curled in an all-too-familiar smirk.

 _Don't do it, Draco._

Somehow, some way, he managed to clamp his mouth shut and he stalked out of the room without a single word. The door slammed behind him as he stormed into the empty street, crossing the road, staring at the sidewalk and accidentally bumping into other pedestrians without apology.

He hated this. Fuck, he hated this. He hated that it was something that happened often enough that he had a fucking breathing technique to handle it. He hated that he had to act professionally and wasn't allowed to curse that blasted woman to hell. He hated that she was right, that he _wasn't_ a good person, that he could be tempted to draw his wand on an innocent woman by just her words.

And most of all, he hated that look on Granger's face. It was the same look his mother had when his father would torture someone on Voldemort's orders. He saw it on the faces of the Muggles he was forced to Crucio while Voldemort watched, laughing. He promised himself he wouldn't have to see that look again.

Draco walked until he reached the end of the alleyway they arrived in. He could feel the panic beginning to settle in and was looking for a clean spot on the floor to sit down and do his breathing when he heard her voice: " _Malfoy_?"

She was on the other side of the alley, curly hair ablaze in the wind. She had followed him. Somehow, this made him angrier—he didn't want her to come comfort him. He didn't want to be rescued because she felt some perverted Gryffindor sympathy-guilt for him. She wasn't _allowed_ to be kind after the way he behaved. This is what he hated most about her and her friends: their damned savior complex.

"Fuck off," he said. His voice was weary and without its normal bite.

"Watch it," she warned. "I'm not the enemy here."

"I saw the way you looked at me," he said coldly. "You were scared of me."

"No, I…" Hermione's denial died in the back of her throat. She was a horrible liar.

"People like her, they preach unity and forgiveness and kindness. But that's a fucking lie. There's no room for a Malfoy in this new utopia of yours."

She joined him on the floor, careful to sit a good foot away from him. She shoved her hands into her jacket pockets and stared down at her shoes. "I won't lie. I don't trust you."

"Color me shocked." He twirled his wand in his fingers and watched small sparks come off the ends. The sparks always happened when he felt strong emotions, as if his wand could read his mind, feel his fury.

"I think you've a horrible attitude and a foul way about you that repels people. I think you have some deep-seated anger issues that need to be addressed. I think you have a questionable past that makes others doubt your sincerity. I think you're cocky and smug, but I also think you're only like that to mask some deep self-hatred." She said it all so confidently, as if she knew him after only spending two days with him, and it enraged him more.

"I don't need a sodding psychology report from a know-it-all Mud—" He stopped himself the moment the word started slipping out of his mouth. _Fuck_. A shower of sparks flew out of his wand and fizzled on the damp concrete.

"Malfoy!" She was standing again, wand drawn, looking like she might hex him to high hell. He threw his arms up over his head and flinched. His instinct was to apologize, but he couldn't bring himself to do it.

"That was against our rules."

He clenched his fists even harder and the sparks began spraying upwards and landing on his skin. He let them fizzle away, feeling in the back of his brain that he deserved the pain. Just like a house elf, he thought with a bitter chuckle. The irony.

"I stopped myself," he said in a low, harsh voice. "I didn't mean it."

She crossed her arms again, breathing in and out slowly. "I yelled at her, you know. I told her where she could stick her bigoted, uninformed opinions."

"Up her fat arse?"

She tucked away her wand and sighed. "In nicer words. But you need to work on your interpersonal skills. It doesn't do you any good if you prove her point by blowing up like a madman."

Draco closed his eyes and steadied his breathing until his wand finally stopped emitting sparks. She'd defended him. It felt nice to be defended. Safe.

"So, the meeting didn't go well," he said when he felt calm again.

"I _should_ report you to the Ministry for sabotaging our diplomatic efforts," she said with a hand on her hip.

He pursed his lips. "Perhaps you should."

She cocked her head to the side and looked at him curiously. "Do you want me to?"

"What?"

"Do you want me to report you?"

"Don't patronize me."

"Then stop victimizing yourself," she said, her voice a little tougher. "I'm giving you an option here. You say there's no room in this new world for you? Well, you didn't make the past world a very comfortable place for me, either. But I'm a good person. In fact, I don't think I'm being cocky when I say I'm a better person than you are. So I'm offering you an olive branch. A second chance. And honestly, Malfoy, you should probably take it. There's no place for pride in the journey to forgiveness."

He frowned and looked down at his shoes. Humility was not his strong point, and it took all the will in his body not to walk away. She was offering an olive branch, something he didn't receive many of. So he took it.

"Okay," he said.

There was no shaking hands, no smile, no truce. He wanted to apologize but the words caught in his throat each time he tried, lodging themselves against his tonsils, refusing to come out. They returned to the hotel and went about their routines in respectful silence, each one doing their best to ignore the other. Draco caught her glancing hesitantly at him a few times, like he was a bomb that might explode without warning. He couldn't blame her. She wasn't wrong.

* * *

Hermione was the last one to bed that night. Draco had tucked in a half hour before she finally pulled on her fuzzy socks and slipped under the covers. She thought he was sleep, but moments after she switched the lights off, she heard him from the other side of the room.

"It was wrong to ever call you a Mudblood."

His voice was low, so quiet that if she had been so much as rustling in her sheets she wouldn't have heard him. His words were less of an apology and more of an objective statement, but she knew what they meant and it made her feel strangely warm and immensely satisfied, like she had reached a milestone in her mission to soften Malfoy. Perhaps that was what he was: an artifact buried deep under years' worth of hardened mud and rock that she was supposed to uncover, and she had just shoveled away the very first layer.

* * *

 **A/N: It's my birthday! Yay! I'm honestly way too old to still be this into FF but WHATEVER- writing this story has been a great distraction from all the other horrible, stressful shit in my life. Hope you enjoyed this chapter. I enjoyed writing it.**

 **-potato.**


	6. A Question for a Question

_songs: 'the scientist'/coldplay_

 _'_ _chasing pavements'/adele_

 **Chapter Six: A Question for a Question**

* * *

Hermione spent two hours in a Floo call the following afternoon with the Ministry's human resources department discussing the events that led up to her and Draco Malfoy storming out of a Squib sanctuary. Draco was sitting in an armchair just far away enough that the woman on the other side of the Floo couldn't see him. He was holding a book on his lap, but Hermione could tell he was eavesdropping by the fact that only flipped the page every fifteen minutes or so.

She wasn't sure why she decided to take mercy on him after the mess he made yesterday. But even she had to admit that Amelia woman had been a right bitch, and seeing as she had three months to spend with Malfoy, it seemed wise to defend him. It wasn't as if he was unprovoked. And when she saw him sitting there on the sidewalk, looking utterly pathetic and defeated… There was a part of him beyond his smug, bitter exterior that was shattered, and Hermione had a penchant for trying to fix broken things. He was a puzzle and she was determined to put the pieces together and figure out just exactly _who_ Draco Malfoy was.

Luckily for both of them, the human resources intern was new and nervous to be speaking with Hermione Granger, so she didn't question Hermione's fabricated story of what happened. She explained that Amelia was incredibly rude and made some untoward comments about both Hermione and Draco, which led to them politely leaving the premises.

"Amelia did tell us that you, quote, ' _ran out in a rage and yelled at her',_ end quote," the squeaky HR woman said.

"And you're more inclined to believe her than me?" Hermione asked, feigning offense. She didn't want to be rude to the girl, but she already had a headache and didn't want to spend any more time talking about the incident.

"No, no, of course not!"

"Then I suggest you write the report as I explained and inform your superior that while we support the efforts of her charity, we will not be reaching out to the organization so long as she is in charge."

The woman's voice lowered. "And I was ordered to ask—are you sure Draco Malfoy wasn't to blame for this? He wasn't aggressive? Provocative?"

Hermione could feel Draco's eyes boring holes in the back of her head. She sighed. "No, he wasn't any more aggressive than I was. Must I repeat that she was incredibly rude to _both_ of us?"

"My apologies, Miss Granger, I have to ask!" she squeaked.

"Will that be all?"

"Yes, I believe that's it."

"Then I wish you a good day," Hermione said in a clipped tone. She looked over at Malfoy, who lifted his book up and pretended to be engrossed in the story. "You're welcome," she said.

"Hm?"

"I _know_ you were listening," she said as she pulled her hair into a bun. "And you're welcome."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

She felt anger bubbling up again—why couldn't the git just be grateful for once? "Listen, I thought we agreed to try."

He put the book down with a sigh. "Try what?"

"To get along."

"My understanding was that we only agreed to be civil."

She pinched the skin between her eyebrows. He was like a child, prodding her with his irritating comments to get a rise out of her. She was tempted to bring up his moment of brief sincerity from last night, but decided that would probably just make things worse. Vulnerability made him aggressive.

"Being civil would be the bare minimum, but I just saved your arse and I think you owe me a little more than civility. We could work to at least get along. Maybe even be friends."

The smirk left his face when she said the word 'friends'. He looked surprised, as if the thought they could be friends had never even crossed his mind. But as she thought back to their days at Hogwarts, she couldn't remember Malfoy ever having real friends. He was always with Crabbe and Goyle, who were more henchmen than friends, or Pansy, who seemed to irritate Malfoy more than anything. Maybe the concept of friendship was so foreign to him that he couldn't fathom being anything but hostile to others. The idea struck a chord on the sensitive side of Hermione's heart, and before she could stop herself, she was blurting out an offer to go to dinner.

Draco cocked an eyebrow. "Pardon?"

"I'm hungry."

"So ring for room service."

"We're in Paris, I'm not going to waste my meals on room service. And you have to go with me wherever I go, so let's go get dinner."

"Ah, so this is just an extension of my work duties," Draco sneered. "You had me scared, Granger. Thought you might be asking me out on a date."

She scoffed. "As if you'd ever be so lucky. Get your shoes on, let's go."

Hermione changed out of her lounging cardigan and pants into a black skirt and red blouse and thought about where they might go to eat. She visited Paris a few times as a teenager and the only place she could remember was one particular Muggle street with several different types of restaurants. They Apparated out from the hotel room and landed on a long cobblestoned street lined with expensive bistros and upscale bars. The trees planted alongside the road were draped with dainty twinkling lights and the air was thick with laughter and cigarette smoke. Hermione flushed—she didn't remember the area being so fancy and romantic as a teenager.

"Well, if I hadn't asked before, I'd really think this was a date," Malfoy said, amused.

"Oh, shut up. Let's go somewhere else."

"What, not in the romantic mood?"

Hermione ignored him and started off around the corner, but she'd made the mistake of wearing heels and was having a difficult time navigating the cracks in the cobblestone. Rather than helping her, Draco smirked at her clumsiness. "Walk much, Granger?"

She opened her mouth to retort, but her heel jammed its way into a gap in the sidewalk and sent her sailing forward towards the cold, hard concrete. She braced herself for a face plant when a firm grip on her upper arm pulled her upright again. She gasped as she wobbled back and forth, leaning on Draco to regain her balance. "Oh!"

"I believe the words you're looking for are _thank you_." Hermione noticed she was holding onto his shoulder and immediately leapt backwards. He frowned, offended. "I'm not poisonous."

"I know, I'm just… very particular about my personal space," she said hurriedly. She looked up at where they had travelled and saw a small warm-looking bistro. The smell of garlic and freshly baked bread wafted over and her stomach growled loudly. "Let's go there."

Inside, the restaurant had large lanterns that hung from the ceiling and illuminated the faces of the many patrons seated in cozy red booths. Hermione and Draco seated themselves in the back corner against the window, where they had a terrific view of drunken teenagers stumbling out of bars and into the dirty streets. The waiter took their orders straight away and Hermione sipped on her drink eagerly as they waited.

"Take a lesson from them and don't get too tipsy," said Draco, gesturing at the giggling and screeching youth.

"This is a sparkling water, dimwit."

Hermione didn't quite know where to rest her gaze, whether or not she should even try to make eye contact or start a conversation or if she should pull out the book she brought and ignore him. Figuring that would be rude, she settled for sitting in silence, people watching and twiddling her thumbs. The peaceful silence was interrupted when she reached the bottom of her drink and started making loud slurping noises in an attempt to get the last few droplets. Draco watched her, amused, until she saw his smirk and put down her glass in embarrassment.

"Please, Granger, don't quit your efforts because of me."

"Shut it."

"No, really, you were very determined to get that last sip. Tell me, is this habit something you picked up from being with Weasley? The urge to consume everything in your immediate vicinity?

It felt wrong to hear Ron's name come out of Draco's mouth. She rubbed the straw between her fingers aggressively. "We're actually not together anymore."

"Oh really?" His pale eyebrows danced up and down over malicious gray eyes. He clearly had been waiting to bring this up. "I read a few things in the paper but just chalked it up to gossip. What a shame, you two really seemed meant for one another."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing," he said calmly. "Not everything that comes out of my mouth is a jab at you."

"It certainly feels that way."

He played with his napkin, tearing bits off the end. "So what happened between you two?"

"What's it to you?"

"Just curious, is all."

She narrowed her eyes, trying to read him, but he was busy ripping his napkin to shreds. It occurred to her that this could be an opportunity: a secret for a secret. She read once that sharing secrets created trust.

"Okay," she said slowly. "Let's make this fun, then. We'll trade a question for a question. For every question I answer, you have to answer one as well."

He considered the offer. "You can't ask about anything that was off-limits when we were writing our rules."

"Of course," she said solemnly.

He put the napkin down, which was now half its original size. "Okay, deal."

She took a deep breath and recited the same speech she had to tell all her friends and family the week after she and Ron split. "Ron and I were great friends who went through an exceptional journey together in our formative years. It was only natural that we would cling together during a difficult time and develop a sense of trust and security. I'll always love him—he's an incredible man and I care for him more than almost anyone. But we just didn't work on a functional level like a couple should. So we broke up."

Draco looked immensely disappointed. "Well, that was boring."

"I didn't promise anything salacious!"

The waitress finally arrived with their steaming plates of food. Hermione dug into her pasta with vigor, not even stopping to wipe the excess sauce that splattered on her cheek. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Draco looking at her in pure disgust, but she didn't care. Maybe she _had_ gleaned more habits from Ron than she initially thought.

"So you still love him, even though it didn't work out?" Draco asked as he took a thoughtful bite of his salad.

"Of course. He's my best friend, along with Harry and Ginny, of course. Maybe if the war hadn't happened, or if we were allowed to be normal children, or if we hadn't been so deeply, irreversibly scarred…" She stopped herself, realizing she was going too far. "I think being _in_ love is a choice you make, and Ron and I chose not to be. The love we have for each other works better as friends."

Draco frowned. "That doesn't make any sense. You can't choose to love someone, you either do or you don't."

Hermione cocked her head to the side and chewed contemplatively. "No, not always. Think of it like a personality trait. You might, let's say, be prone to irritability. You can either give in and be an irritable person, or you can make the conscious effort to be less irritable. I see that the same way I see being in love: you can either put in the work to love someone, or you can let it go."

This logic seemed to appeal to Draco. "I see."

"Do you disagree?"

"No," he said firmly. "People can make the effort to change."

Hermione understood they weren't talking about Ron anymore, that the conversation had transcended to a larger issue. Draco took another bite of his salad and went back to shredding his napkin. "So what's your question for me?"

She had a particular question in mind but decided to save it for later. She needed to work up to it, get his guard down a little more. Gain his trust.

"What's _your_ love life like?" she asked.

"Oh, absolutely fantastic," he said sarcastically. "There's just hoards of women desperate to date a former Death Eater."

Hermione cringed. She hadn't thought the question through.

"No need to pity me," he said dismissively. "I do fine for myself. I'm quite charming, in case you haven't noticed."

She rolled her eyes. "Have you even loved a woman?" Hermione couldn't imagine Malfoy courting a girl, taking her on dates, introducing himself to her parents. She had a ludicrous vision of him at her parent's house, trying to explain his ridiculous name and expensive clothing.

He sobered for a moment. "Sort of. Once. Closest thing I'd felt to it, anyway."

"Who was she?"

"That's two questions! The deal was one for one."

She crossed her arms. "Fine. Go."

"Potter—did you ever fancy him?"

She laughed so hard the couple sitting across from them began to stare. She covered her mouth to calm herself. "God, no!"

"Not even a little?"

"Well, there wasn't a witch out there who didn't have a crush on Harry Potter when we were in school. Maybe in our second year I thought he was cute. It didn't take a lot for me to develop a crush; I basically liked any boy who would even talk to me. Don't you remember what I looked like before age fifteen?"

Draco smirked. "Well, I thought the hair was somewhat endearing."

"Shut up."

"Reminded me a lot of my childhood dog…"

"You're a prat."

"I know."

Hermione pointed her fork at him. "My turn. Who was she?"

"Pass."

"You can't pass!"

He shook his head. "You didn't set up any ground rules, so I'm passing."

"That's unfair," she complained, but she thought of a new question anyway. "Where did you meet her?"

"Maine."

"In the States?"

He nodded. This shocked Hermione, who had no idea that he'd lived abroad. But then again, she knew close to nothing about him or his life after the War had ended. "What were you doing there?"

"Granger, you really are terrible at this game. It's my turn."

"Fine," she sighed.

"What do you think of me? As a person?"

He asked the question like a daring child, curious but also timid and unsure of whether or not he wanted to know the answer. He was staring right at her, his gaze only broken by a few strands of his white-blonde hair that fell over his forehead and eyes. She drew her lower lip up between her teeth and bit down nervously. "Um…"

"Be honest. I want to know." She was sure he didn't want to know the sincere truth, which was brutal and not very pleasant. She couldn't even think of a few positive things to buffer the honest truth of what she thought of him.

"I think… Well, I think you were someone I hated as a child. But I was a child back then, and so were you, so continuing that hatred into adulthood would be immature and irrational, two things I strive never to be. Obviously that's easier said than done, but I'm working on it. You're still an arse, and you're rather smug, and ungrateful, and rude, but I don't regard you with hate anymore. I regard you with… sympathy."

The word she wanted to use was _pity_ , but thought it might insult him. Already, he was sitting stiffer. "Your turn," he said. His lips were drawn into a firm line and his hands were folded formally on the table. She wanted to apologize, but there wasn't anything she was sorry for—he did ask for the truth.

She asked the question that had been on her mind since she had seen him the first day at the Ministry. "How did you end up here—training to be an Auror? Why this career?"

The napkin he was shredding was now gone, the fibers of its body sprinkled over the table like snow on a rooftop. His jaw tightened, which made his long face appear even more angular and sharp. "The question on everyone's mind, it seems."

"It's a strange choice for a Malfoy."

He sighed. "Normally I don't answer that question. I don't feel an obligation to give the world answers, but given that you are forced to spend all your time with me, I suppose you deserve the truth."

Hermione was nonplussed by his honesty, and morbidly curious about the real reason he was here. She speculated about it: maybe he was trying to save face, maybe he had to pursue a career in public service to avoid Azkaban, maybe he was trying to impress a girl. He was so intensely secretive that anything was possible.

Draco took another long sigh and began ripping another napkin apart. "I was not a good person. My family, we're not good people, and I know that. And I don't mean that we did bad things, I mean that something deep inside us is just… _bad_. We were weak, we were cowards. I did things I didn't want to do just because I was too scared to stand up for myself.

"I ended up wanting to die in the war, you know? I figured I was fucked ether way: a life under the thumb of Voldemort, or a life imprisoned for my family's crimes. I could've killed myself, but I was too much of a coward to even do that. But then the war ended and I got lucky—I wasn't held up to the same amount of scrutiny as my parents were because I was underage.

"After that, I was stuck. My father was in prison, my mother wouldn't get out of bed, and all of my friends and family were in similar situations, if not dead. I left for awhile just to get away from it all. I spent time alone in the States, used up the last of all my money funding my own research, doing projects I enjoyed, trying to figure things out. But then my father died and mother was institutionalized after trying to commit suicide, so I came back to England to be with her. I decided I could spend the rest of my life ashamed and continue being a coward, or I could… I could prove to myself that I could be more than a frightened, weak, arrogant child. It's not like I'm particularly passionate about righting all the wrongs in the world, but… Being an Auror meant I could prove to myself that I was more than a coward who would spend his whole life feeling sorry for himself."

By the time he was done speaking, he had shredded his second napkin and was tapping the end of the table nervously with his fingernails. His head was bowed and he was speaking more to his plate than he was to Hermione. There were so many questions she had. Why did Narcissa try to commit suicide, what did he do once he left England, what he was up to in Maine, who he was really trying to prove himself to—but she knew one wrong move would break the delicate trust they built within their red booth.

"That's it?" she asked. "That's a very sensible reason to be an Auror."

"I'm sorry, was the story not good enough? I didn't promise anything salacious," he said with a grin, echoing her earlier words.

"Fair," she said. "You mentioned you did research abroad. What on?"

Draco's eyes lit up in the same way her own did whenever she talked about her work. He even forgot that it was his turn for a question. "I worked on charm modification and amplification—improving upon existing magic, helping modernize it. My briefcase is an example of it. My biggest project, though, is a twist on a Pensieve. My goal is to use divination techniques to create a device that can show a person possible projections of their future based on whatever memory they insert."

He spoke with heavy enthusiasm, and she regarded him, somewhat speechlessly, like a new man. "That's really interesting, actually. I don't put much stock into divination, but I'd love to see your research. Have you had any success so far?"

"Some. It's still in the works, and I haven't really had the time to get far since I started Auror training."

"I don't understand why you don't continue your spell work instead of becoming an Auror. It can be a lucrative trade if you're talented."

He shrugged, his excitement fading. "There was a bit more to the Auror story than I what I told you. I left out some sensational details, but you'll have to do much more than wine and dine me to get those out, Granger."

She grinned. "Challenge accepted."

He raised one eyebrow mysteriously. "But you should ask yourself whether or not you _want_ to know the details."

This thought hadn't occurred to Hermione, who practically made it her life mission to know absolutely everything about everything. She'd seen more than anyone her age should ever have to see, and yet she wasn't entirely sure she wanted to know what Malfoy was hiding. Maybe some secrets, especially those shrouded in darkness and shame, were better left uncovered. She thought of her own secrets, of the nights she spent in cold sweats rocking back and forth in the corner of her room, wand raised at a Death Eater that only existed in her mind. She thought of the times she tore herself up over the fact that she was alive, wondering why she was still breathing when so many other were dead. She thought about the periods of depression that draped over her like heavy blankets, suffocating her and making it next to impossible to leave her home. She was curious if he ever felt the same, but at the same time, she wouldn't wish those feelings on anyone else. Even Malfoy.

"You're right," she said. "Sometimes there are things that are better left in the past."

Hermione finished her meal, ordered another sparkling water, and ignored when Draco made fun of they way she slurped. When the check came he waved away her money, covered the tab, and ignored when she made fun of his credit card.

After dinner they walked back out to the end of the street draped in twinkling lights, where Hermione sat down on a bench to remove her shoes and rub her sore feet. Draco leaned on a telephone pole next to her, pulled a thin cigarette from his coat, and took a long, weary drag. Hermione watched the tendrils of smoke spiral and dance in the sky, eventually dissipating into the air and floating away. He saw her staring and offered the cigarette to her, which she accepted. She didn't smoke often, but the night was cold and the she welcomed the heat in her lungs. She handed it back and realized that the cigarette was his olive branch—his way of acknowledging a step in the right direction.

There they ended the night: sharing a cigarette, churning out their smoke into the air like two miniature factories in the business of healing.

* * *

A/N: I loved writing this chapter. It's a turning point for our pair—moving towards friendship rather than merely civility. It's also fun to explore the different ways Draco and Hermione have dealt with the aftermaths of the war.

Tell me what your favorite and least favorite aspect/part of the story has been so far! [and if you're a guest reviewer, thank you for your kind words! normally i'd reply but i can't do that with guest reviews]


	7. A Date

**Chapter Seven: A Date**

* * *

The second destination on Hermione's trip was Madrid, Spain. Their hotel was an old Spanish villa that Hermione couldn't stop fawning over from the moment they arrived—(the original paint was still intact!)—and both she and Draco were happy that they had separate rooms this time (although he did have emergency access to her room in case something urgent happened, much to her displeasure).

Out of all the places they were to visit, Spain was definitely one of the ones Hermione was most excited for. If you asked Ginny, this was because _Daniel_ lived in Spain and Hermione was infatuated with the man but was simply too embarrassed to admit it. If you asked Hermione, it was because she had never been to Spain and because she was excited for the work she was going to do there. And also maybe a little bit because she was going to see Daniel.

But only a little bit.

In the privacy of her own hotel room, Hermione pulled out the last letter Daniel wrote her from a week ago.

 _Hermione,_

 _I am very much looking forward to your arrival in Madrid this upcoming week. I understand you are on a very tight schedule and I promise not to take up too much of your time. Per your request, I chose a place for us to meet. It's a bakery I frequented as a child—_ Pasteleria del Pozo. _I included a small map in case you need help finding it. I will be there at twelve o'clock sharp! I know you are not a fan of tardiness._

 _I hope your travels are going well and that Spain treats you well upon your arrival._

 _My best always,_

 _Daniel_

Hermione sighed and folded up the note again. She had forty-five minutes to spare before she was supposed to meet him, a fact Draco was not privy to. She originally planned to spend the entire afternoon with Daniel, but she knew Draco wasn't going to budge on his 'one hour of free time per day' rule. She actually felt a little giddy at the idea of sneaking out, like a teenager climbing out the window at night to visit a boy her parents didn't approve of. Of course, Hermione never did anything like that when she actually was a teenager. The lies she told were more about saving the world from evil than snogging boys.

Hermione deliberated over outfits for a whole five minutes (which was five times as long as she normally allocated to wardrobe deliberation) before deciding on a long sundress and hat. After charming her hair to a socially acceptable level of poofiness, she knocked on Draco's open door. He was leaning back on his bed and tinkering with what looked like a disassembled robot. "What do you want, Granger?"

"I'm going out for a bit." She paused. "What are you doing?"

"Work," he said in a tone that suggested he didn't want to elaborate any further.

"Okay, have fun working. I'll be back in an hour."

"Where are you going?"

"Out."

" _Granger_ ," he warned.

"Oh, I don't know, I'll probably just walk around a bit, explore the city, maybe purchase some illicit drugs…"

He looked unamused. "I'm supposed to take everything you say seriously, so if you're really getting drugs, I have to stop you."

She rolled her eyes. "I'll be back in an hour."

Hermione took off before her could argue and once outside, made sure to take several sharp turns in case Draco decided to tail her. She didn't yet trust that he trusted her, even if they did share one civil evening together. A friendship had to be built on much more than just one shared cigarette.

As she walked briskly along the long streets of Madrid, Hermione thought back on the day she first met Daniel. It had been at one of Ginny's Quidditch matches, which Hermione hated attending. She, Ron, Harry always sat in the nice box seats, being the family of one of the players as well as minor celebrities. The other attendees in the box were some of the wizarding world's most powerful and wealthy witches and wizards, most of whom were absolutely insufferable. Normally she entertained herself by making fun of their stiff suits and upturned noses with Harry and Ron, but at this particular match her two friends were busy with work, and she was alone with no one to appreciate her snarky jokes.

Daniel ended up sitting next to her, dressed in a white button-up and black slacks, his hair combed up and over to the side. He was attractive in an annoying, smarmy way, and Hermione initially dismissed him as just another trust fund kid. She spent the match alternating between eating popcorn, picking the lint off her sweater, and mumbling under her breath about the dangerous nature of Quidditch. At one point she watched a Bludger slam into the head of Sylvia Tatson, one of the Beaters, who slipped off her broom and landed on the ground with a resounding thud.

Hermione groaned. "I hate that they use Bludgers," she mumbled as the medical team scooped up Sylvia's limp body and removed her from the field.

Daniel leaned over. "I agree," he said with a slight accent. Hermione immediately leaned away from the strange man, hating it when people thought it was okay to invade her personal space. "I'm sorry, I didn't meant to make you uncomfortable," he apologized.

"S'fine," Hermione said, still staring at the field.

"It's the complete disregard for the players' lives and health that really gets to me," he continued. "I read once in the Journal of Magical Sports Medicine that the suicide rate of those with more than five bludger-related injuries are more than double the rate of a normal wizard."

Hermione's interest was piqued. She peered at him out of the corner of her eye. "I read that statistic, too—I keep telling Ginny they need to improve the team's helmets, but she said injuries are part of the game. It's the danger of peril, or something. You'd think she's had enough of that."

"It's idiotic," Daniel said.

" _Very_ ," she agreed.

"Although, the injuries do help me stay in business."

Now it was Hermione's turn to lean in. "Do you work in medicine?" She assumed anyone who could afford a box seat had earned their money in slimy, unsavory ways.

"Not exactly," said Daniel with a charming smile. "I run a hospital in Madrid—Santa Lucia's. I handle the business side only, but I do have great respect for the healers there. They do far more important work than I."

"It's all important work," Hermione said. "You know, I actually read about your hospital the other day. There was a recent report of your surgical team's success in repairing erased memories by physically entering the brain."

He nodded somberly. "A very serious surgical case. The entire hospital was on edge that day, hoping they would be successful. The surgery was part of our endeavor to integrate Muggle and magical medicine."

Hermione smiled. She was beginning to warm up to this strange man. "That's incredible."

"It _was_ pretty amazing," Daniel admitted. He extended his hand. "I'm Daniel Rodriguez, by the way."

"Hermione Granger."

"I know," he said, eye twinkling. She blushed.

The two chatted their way through the entire second half of the game and didn't even notice when it finally ended and everyone else had cleared out of the box. Ginny finally bursted into the room, arms full of flowers from dedicated fans, and had to remind Hermione that they had dinner scheduled after the game.

After that game, she and Daniel exchanged information and wrote to each other sparingly, but the distance made it difficult for anything real to happen. There was one short kiss when he was in London for a conference and they had drinks, but Hermione was clear that she wasn't willing to go further than that without knowing him better. Not that she didn't _want_ to do more—and the fact that he was so gracious about her rejection made it even harder to go home alone that night. But she knew herself, and she had a hard time separating sex and emotions.

As she walked through the streets Hermione found herself compulsively checking her hair every time she saw her reflection in a window, and then cursing herself for caring so much about what her hair looked like. Daniel was charming, and attractive, but this was strictly a friendly lunch. She couldn't get involved with someone who lived so far. She had far more important things to worry about and there simply wasn't any time for men in her life.

"Hermione?"

She halted quickly in her steps and turned around. There he was, in front of a small door that she'd walked right past, wearing a very flattering blue color that matched his eyes. His dark hair was swept over his tan forehead, and a ghost of a beard adorned his well-defined chin.

"Daniel!" She embraced him warmly. "It's so good to see you."

"And you," he said, smiling wide and winking. Circe, he really had the whole charm thing down to a science. He opened the door for her and gestured her to walk in. Immediately she was greeted with a gust of warm air that smelled of butter, sugar, and fresh bread. "Take a seat, I'll pick out some sweets for us."

Hermione watched from a small round table, mouth watering, as Daniel picked out some puff pastries and doughnuts from the glass display case. He presented each pastry to her individually as if it were a fine piece of art. "We have some classics, some traditional, and some unusual. My favorite, of course, is the flan." He pointed to a caramel-covered disc that jiggled slightly on the plate.

"I don't know about that," said Hermione hesitantly. The dessert looked far too plasticky.

"Trust me."

She took a small forkful and held back a moan. "That's _fantastic_."

"I've never found another place that makes flan like they do here." He reached over a swept a thumb over the edge of Hermione's cheekbone. She froze. "You had a crumb."

Hermione blushed. Besides the old clerk who always greeted her with a shoulder squeeze at the grocery store, a man hadn't touched her in six months. Maybe Ginny was right. Maybe she did need a good shag.

"So tell me, how have your travels been?" asked Daniel. "I'm so jealous of you, getting paid to see the world. Although I cannot say I'm surprised Hermione Granger is doing such wonderful things."

She flushed even deeper. Professional praise was one thing, but flirtatious compliments were a welcome change. "Travelling has been wonderful. I do miss home already, though, especially my friends." She thought of Harry and Ron—she couldn't remember another time in her life that she went this long without seeing them.

"Ah, yes. Friends. How is Ginny Potter? Still playing for the Harpies?"

"Actually, she's on leave. She's pregnant with their first child."

Daniel smiled wide, as if Ginny was an old friend and this news meant something significant to him. "How wonderful! Another Potter. Is it hard to be away from her during this special time?"

"I do miss her," Hermione said as she finished off the last of the flan. "She obviously can't Apparate this far, Portkeys are dangerous while pregnant, and it's so hard to set up a time and place to Floo. But I think she's going to be visiting me later this week." Hermione took note of the way Daniel listened intently while she spoke, nodding and 'hmm'-ing at the right moments. One of her biggest pet peeves with Ron was how he never seemed to be engaged when she was talking.

"Are you lonely, travelling so much like this by yourself?" Daniel asked.

Hermione snorted as she thought of Malfoy, who was probably counting down the minutes before she was due back, ready to yell about his job being on the line if she was even seconds late. "Actually, I have a travel companion—Draco Malfoy. But honestly, I would rather be lonely than be travelling with him. The Ministry assigned him to me as a safety measure."

"Oh, he is just your travelling companion? I thought he might be your boyfriend."

Hermione choked on her chocolate croissant, sending half-chewed chunks flying onto the table. She flushed and tried to cover her mouth as she gagged. "Wh-Where did you get that idea?"

"There are photos of you two in all the tabloids. Well, it was only one photo—you were out late at night, smoking a cigarette. I believe the article mentioned you were in Paris? I must admit, I was surprised to hear from you after I saw the photo, as I assumed you two were together. But now that I know he's just a work acquaintance…" He smiled, a sparkle in his eye.

Hermione felt sick. The gossip rags left her alone for the most part, as she tried her best to lead the most uninteresting life possible. The last article she saw about herself was a sad attempt to paint her as a desperate bachelorette because she was spotted wearing a skirt that exposed her knees. Oh, the scandal. But for the most part she managed to fly under the radar. How in all of hell did they even _find_ her in Paris?

"That's disgusting," she said, suddenly uninterested in finishing her croissant. " _Malfoy_ is disgusting. I assure you, he is the furthest thing from a romantic interest for me."

Daniel eyes twinkled again. "So then why do you need a bodyguard?"

"The Ministry thinks someone's out to get me." Although she spoke dismissively of the attack at the Burrow, she was still on alert wherever she went, a habit leftover from months on the run as a teenager. Even sitting there at the cozy table with a man she trusted, her fingers were brushing the handle of her wand, which was sticking out of her purse.

"Are you in danger?" asked Daniel. "I heard nothing about a threat."

"Don't you get all heroic on me. I've had enough pseudo-white knights in my life, I can take care of myself."

Daniel smiled playfully and she felt herself relax. "I would never argue otherwise."

Hermione reached for another pastry and tried her best to forget the silly gossip. She would deal with that later. Daniel impressed her with talk of the new research he was funding at Santa Lucia to find a more affordable vaccine for spattergroit. He described to her his in-home library and Hermione found herself seriously contemplating Ginny's suggestion to go home with him, if only for the books. They debated animatedly over whether or not Willard Wilvire's controversial new survey of Dark Magic should be taught in third-year classes, and eventually decided to agree to disagree. She was so engrossed in their conversation and his wit and humor that she practically yelped in shock when she looked at her watch and saw it was ten minutes past the hour.

"Oh, no—I am so sorry, I have to go!" Hermione jumped up so quickly she knocked over her nearly-empty cup of coffee.

"What?"

She flung her hands anxiously. "I'm so, so sorry! I've got to be back at a certain time, you see. I'm on a strict timeline!"

Daniel smiled, somehow even more relaxed when she was anxious. "Calm down! I'm sure whoever you have to meet is willing to wait for Hermione Granger. Let me use the restroom and then I'll walk you out."

"No, I really have to—!" But it was too late, Daniel was already halfway to the loo. Hermione cursed under her breath and watched the seconds tick by on her watch. Would it be rude to leave while he was in the restroom? No, she didn't want to do that. She liked him. In fact, she was pretty sure she wanted to see him again, and not just in a cute-bakery-date setting. She wanted to see him again in a pants-on-the-floor setting.

But she also really didn't feel like getting into a screaming match with Malfoy when she got back to the hotel. She knew every minute she was late would amount to at least ten minutes of arguing.

Hermione was internally debating the pros and cons of leaving right then and there when it happened: a jet of yellow light whizzed right above her head and there was a crack as the window behind her blasted open. Glass rained down in what felt like slow motion, stinging her skin, forcing her to duck down and close her eyes. Instinctively, she yanked her wand from her purse, blindly pointed in the direction the curse came from and exploded apart the pastry display case. She heard the cashier scream as even more glass sprayed onto the ground.

She opened her eyes just in time to see a wooden chair come flying from behind her, whiz above her head, and slam into the cashier behind the destroyed counter, who collapsed with a wheeze as the breath was knocked out of her.

Heart racing wildly, Hermione spun around to see where the chair came from. When she saw him, standing firmly with his wand still raised, she felt faint, her heart beating a mile a minute.

" _Malfoy_?"

"Granger," he greeted, slightly out of breath. His wand was still pointed in her direction.

"What the _fuck_?"

"I should be asking you the same thing," he said. "I was hoping for a thank-you, but I suppose that's too much to expect from you, even if I did just save your life."

She looked back and forth from the wreck to the woman on the floor to Malfoy, trying to process what had just happened. "What the hell—you didn't have to—you did _not_ save my life!"

Malfoy finally lowered his wand and walked inside the shop to inspect the wreckage. He muttered something and silver ropes began to snake around the unconscious woman's body. "Well, you _were_ successful in tripping her when you exploded half the wall. But I imagine she probably would have just stood right back up and tried to kill you again if it weren't for me."

Hermione felt white-hot anger course through her veins. He had been _following_ her. She wouldn't be surprised if he had been watching the entire time as she giggled and flirted like a bloody idiot. Merlin, she hated him.

Setting aside her wrath, Hermione approached the now decimated counter and took a good look at the unconscious woman. She was short with blonde hair and a small nose. Hermione didn't recognize her at all.

"This was a stupid decision, Granger. You shouldn't have lied to me."

"Oh, was I supposed to just _know_ that the bakery clerk was evil? I'll have you know that I was here with a friend that I know and trust…" She trailed off, just then remembering Daniel. "Oh, God."

In the bathroom, they found Daniel slumped against the wall. Hermione checked for a pulse and examined his eyes, which were glazed over in a familiar way she'd seen a hundred times before.

"Imperius?" asked Draco. She nodded mutely. "See, Granger, this is why you can't lie to me."

"I'm not a _child_ —"

"It's my _job_ to know where you are—"

"I know twice the curses and defensive spells you do—"

"Bloody hell, Granger, I just want to make sure you're safe!" Hermione shut up instantly. That was an excuse she hadn't heard before. "It would seriously tarnish my reputation if you died on my watch," he said quickly.

"I don't know," she mocked. "It sure sounded like you actually cared about me for a second there."

He narrowed his eyes and turned up his nose at her. They both looked at Daniel, at the wreckage behind them, and then back at each other.

"There is going to be so much paperwork to fill out," Hermione said with a sigh.

"There wouldn't have to be if you weren't such a dumb twit and told me the truth about where you were going," he said. "I could have supervised. You would have hardly known I was there."

She rolled her eyes and stood up, brushing off her skirt and wondering where they were even going to begin cleaning up. "What, and let you make snarky comments the whole time? I lied for a reason."

"Yeah, I'd be embarrassed to be seen with him in public, too. That hair… it's like he's a statue. So stiff."

Hermione glared. "May I remind you that your hair resembled a helmet up until fourth year?"

"Yes, well, I grew out of it, didn't I?" He turned around and started repairing the broken window. "Really, even _you_ could do better than him. You need someone who's more on your level."

Hermione's nostrils flared as she tried to hold her tongue. She supposed she really wasn't in a place to defend her choices when the man she thought she was on a date with was Imperiused the whole time, but Malfoy really didn't know when to stop. "What's _that_ supposed to mean?"

Draco shrugged. "You know, you'd work better with someone more… genuine. Someone real. I met this guy before at a charity event and he's an arsehole. Thinks he's better than everyone. Real git."

"Takes one to know one," she muttered under her breath. While she'd never admit it to him, part of her thought he was right. A man like Daniel was fun for a little, but she couldn't imagine spending her entire life with someone who was always so smooth and put-together. She needed a little more honesty in a person.

But it _certainly_ wasn't Draco Malfoy's place to tell her that.

With a sigh she turned back to Daniel's unconscious form and began the tedious process of lifting the Imperius curse from his mind. Draco returned to the woman behind the counter and began backtracing her wand, knowing that spell records disappeared after twenty-four hours. She watched out of the corner of her eye—he was good at it. She wondered who the woman was—was she connected to the first attack? Was it possible that Ron and Harry were right, that this was some international organization out to get them? She wondered how the woman could have even known that she was going to meet Daniel here, or how she managed to capture and Imperius him- they must have intercepted her mail! There went any chance of her getting free time again. It would be 24/7 Malfoy from here on out...

She felt utterly mortified and embarrassed at the entire incident. Malfoy really wasn't going to let her live this one down. At the very least, she thought, this would make for a very entertaining story to tell Ginny next time they talked, and maybe it would finally get her to shut up about Hermione needing to date more.

* * *

 **A/N: GASP! The drama continues. Who's out to hurt Hermione? Why did Draco follow her? And why wasn't there anyone else around when they exploded an entire bakery? (Answer: Because I didn't feel like writing the boring details of them wiping memories. You can insert that with your imagination!)**

 **Review! My goal is 50 reviews before I update again. Criticism welcomed. Praise (uncomfortably) accepted. Personal anecdotes appreciated. Awkward puns celebrated. Distressed ramblings about the current political climate understood.**


	8. Kindness for Kindness' Sake

_a/n: wasn't going to update until wednesday, but y'all were so supportive last chapter, and today_ _ **is**_ _valentine's day! so here we go. the first hints of dramione start here and really develop next chapter. get excited!_

 **Chapter Eight: Kindness for Kindness' Sake**

* * *

Draco was sure that she had gotten them both fired. Of _course_ the moment she left the hotel he decided to follow her. He didn't trust her. It was terrible timing because he was in the middle of trying to recreate Granger's fascinating floating projector device when she barged in and said she was 'going for a walk'. He knew better, though. A woman who hardly remembered to brush her hair on a daily basis did not wear floral sundresses to just go for a walk.

She turned out, surprisingly, to be much harder to trail than expected. She made some sharp turns and he was pretty sure she Apparated herself to the other side of the street at one point. When the chase ended at a small Spanish bakery, Draco was sorely disappointed. He had been hoping for something more scandalous, something he could use as blackmail.

But then he saw the man she was meeting.

Immediately, Draco did what all men do when they encounter another male: he sized him up. Daniel was slightly shorter, but built sturdier. He was wearing custom-tailored clothes; Draco recognized the designer as one his father used to purchase from. His beard was carefully carved into a perfectly symmetrical shape, and his teeth were straight and white. After staring for a good minute, Draco recognized Daniel as the successor the Rodriguez family, who owned several hospitals and research labs. They were a well-known and well-respected pureblood family who kept a pristine reputation and ran a very successful empire. In fact, Draco was fairly sure he was born in one of the hospitals they owned. For some reason, this made him angry.

He watched them through a window from a bench across the street as Hermione giggled and flirted like a common bint. She let him pull out her chair like she couldn't do it herself and he wiped her face as if she was an infant. It was the same act put on by so many other vapid women who simpered and tittered like their minds were made of fluff. He hated when women acted that way, and hated it even more that _she_ was acting that way. He thought she was better than that. As much as he despised Granger's holier-than-thou attitude, her prissy way of speaking, and the monumental pole up her arse, it was disappointing to see her lowering herself to the level of a desperate tramp to get a man's attention. Granger needed someone who could match her intelligence and independence. Someone who she wouldn't have to dumb herself down for.

As well as someone who could match her ugly hair and lack of humor, of course.

Just when he thought he'd followed her all that way just to watch her make a fool of herself, Draco saw the cashier raise a wand at Hermione, who was too preoccupied waiting for her lover to return from the loo to notice. It chilled him to the bone that she was supposed to be on her own without him. If he hadn't followed her, she'd be dead and he'd be out of a job.

Of course, she refused to grant him even the slightest gratitude for saving her ditzy arse. She lied to him, got herself into a mess, and now _he_ was going to be fired. Fuck, he hated her, and he hated himself more for believing she'd be okay on her own.

Within an hour of reporting what had happened, Kingsley, Regina, Ron, Harry, and a representative from the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes were standing in their hotel room. Immediately, Draco recoiled into the pathetic version of himself that he had to be around his superiors: docile, respectful, humble. _Play the part, and you keep your job,_ he reminded himself as he grit his teeth.

The moment Potter came out the Floo, he tackled Hermione into an aggressive hug, and Weasley kept asking her over and over if she was all right. It was disgusting how much those three loved each other. He saw Hermione visibly relax for the first time since they got back to the hotel. Draco couldn't think of a single person who cared for him they way they did each other. Not that he'd _want_ someone to—it looked suffocating.

"I'm glad you're safe," said Harry in a way that Draco found far too paternalistic.

"It was nothing, really. I'm fine."

Hermione sounded positively chipper, nothing like she had been when they were arguing over how to clean up the mess just a half hour ago. She'd been mortified, trying to gather up whatever scraps of pride she had left. He watched her pat down her skirt as she calmly tried to reassure Potter and he wondered what changed her attitude.

"Let's all sit," boomed Kingsley. They all managed to fit into the tiny kitchen table, where Draco was squeezed between Regina and the Ministry representative, who were regarding him as if his skin were barbed and they shouldn't get too close.

"I want to first express how relieved I am that you both are safe and unharmed," said Kingsley. "I understand completely if this incident would prompt you to end your travels prematurely."

Hermione shook her head vigorously. "Of course not. We've only just begun! I have so much more to do."

Ron sighed. "I told you she would say no. She's more hard-headed than any of us."

"That's what makes her so invaluable," Kingsley said. "But also what makes her such a liability."

"We should really get a formal report of the incident," reminded Regina, who wasn't one for small talk.

Draco clenched his jaw, turned to Hermione, and waited for her to tell them that it was his fault for letting her out on her own. But when his eyes met her amber brown ones, he saw pity, not malice.

"Malfoy and I went to visit a friend of mine," she blurted out. He froze. She was lying? Granger was a _horrible_ liar.

"His name is Daniel," she continued, her voice high and nervous. "I met him at one of Ginny's Quidditch matches a year ago. He lives here and I wrote to him asking if he wanted to meet up while I was in town. He said yes, and that he knew this excellent bakery, and so we went there this afternoon."

Regina was taking diligent notes. Her eyes were sharp and skeptical as they scanned Hermione's face. "Both you and Mr. Malfoy went together?"

"Of course. He doesn't let me go anywhere alone—it's absolutely irritating." Her voice started to even out. She was telling the truth, after all. He did absolutely irritate her.

Regina turned to Draco. "And did you perform the necessary security and screening charms before allowing Hermione to enter the building?" He opened his mouth but couldn't find any words to say. She didn't tell him she was planning on fibbing. He had no story to tell them.

"I didn't let him!" Hermione covered hastily. "I told him not to worry, that Daniel was a friend. I didn't want Malfoy to… To make a scene in front of him. He would have embarrassed me."

Draco felt indignant anger rise up again. He'd seen that look in many a girl's eyes at Hogwarts before—she was smitten with that idiot man, even after knowing he was Imperiused the whole time! Apparently even the sharpest ones lost their edge when it came to men.

Hermione took a deep breath and continued. "I really liked Daniel, which isn't something I really want to be admitting to my employer, but it's the truth. I didn't want Daniel to worry or think me odd. I even made Malfoy sit in the corner at a different table, which is why I sent the first countercurse and not him. He didn't have a clear view of what was happening."

Draco could see both Weasley and Potter staring him down, both evidently furious that he hadn't protected their beloved Hermione to the best of his ability. He could tell her friends knew she wasn't being entirely forthcoming and he shuddered to think of how they would react if they knew he almost let her go wandering around on her own.

Hermione quickly hashed out the rest of the story, including as few details as possible, until Regina was sufficiently happy with her report. The other Ministry worker asked some questions about their physical health and then left to the hospital, where Daniel was recovering from his Imperius Curse.

The meeting ended with a brief scolding on Draco's part for not taking the proper defensive security measures and a reminder to Hermione that she wasn't to mess with the proper protocol, and then a brief recognition of how well they both handled the aftermath of the incident. Kingsley left immediately to attend to another pressing matter, leaving just Ron, Harry, Hermione, and Draco alone in the room.

"You lied," said Harry to Hermione.

"We can tell when you lie," said Ron. "You wrinkle your nose and your voice gets all high and you don't make eye contact."

Draco suppressed a smirk. She _did_ do all of those things.

Hermione feigned offense. "You don't trust me?"

"What really happened?"

She shrugged elusively. "I don't know what you're talking about. I told the story exactly how it happened."

"Are you covering for _him_?" asked Ron, as if Draco weren't just feet away.

"I can hear you," Draco said lazily.

"Shut up, Malfoy."

Hermione sighed. "Even if there was something else to tell you—which there isn't!—I wouldn't be able to. It's a conflict of interest and you'd be obligated to inform the Ministry."

"That's not true!"

"It absolutely is, I've read every bylaw out there. In a perfect world, friendship codes would outrank government ones, but unfortunately, Harry, we don't live in a perfect world." She walked to the sink and poured herself a glass of water. She looked weary, as if lying had taken a considerable amount of energy.

"If she doesn't want to tell us, she's not going to tell us," Ron said to Harry, who sighed.

"Fine. But if things get more serious… you'd tell us, wouldn't you Hermione? You'd tell us." Harry's expression was somber.

"I would," she said. There it was again, that look of pure trust and comfort that settled on her face when she was around those two. Draco hated it.

"Good," Ron said. "We have the woman you two caught in custody right now. We had an easier time finding a match on her."

"What's her name?" asked Hermione.

Ron and Harry looked uncomfortably back and forth from Draco to Hermione. "Er… Well, we're not really supposed to tell you anything, Hermione. It's strictly Auror business. Privileged information."

"Excuse me, Ronald Weasley?" the bushy-haired witch said indignantly. "Privileged information? I'm sorry, does being attacked by the woman not make me _privileged_ enough?"

Draco took a step back to enjoy the unfolding scene. Ron turned red and cowered a bit. "No, Hermione, you know that's not what I mean."

"Then what _do_ you mean? Do you mean Malfoy deserves to know more than _I_ do? Is _Malfoy_ the one being targeted here? Is _Malfoy_ your friend of over a decade?"

"Whoa, Granger, why am I being dragged into this?" Draco goaded. Hermione shot him a glare but decided to ignore his comment.

"Harry, you are going to tell me what you know right now or I promise I will make your life a living hell." Her words burned like fire, and Draco caught himself grinning at the stubborn, domineering Granger he remembered—far from the version of her he watched in the bakery that morning.

Harry sighed and ran a hand through his messy hair. "Her name is Lisa Bernat. She's a halfblood witch who was homeschooled in Spain. So far she admitted to placing Daniel under the Imperius curse but she won't say anything else."

Draco mentally tried to find a connection between this Lisa woman and Trentin, the man they identified from the first attack, but came up with nothing. He would have to look more carefully when Potter owled him the case files later.

"We're going to be doing the most invasive Legilimency possible on that woman and we'll tell you what we can," vowed Ron. "In the meantime, _be careful_." He turned to Draco. "That means you, too. Don't do anything stupid. Kingsley said we can trust you… Don't make him a liar."

Draco nodded curtly and the men hugged Hermione goodbye before heading back towards the fireplace, leaving the two of them alone once again.

* * *

Draco managed to wait exactly thirty minutes after Harry and Ron left that evening before descending upon Hermione with a mountain of questions. He opened the door to her room and found her curled on the sofa, wearing a gray sweater and organizing some notes. He took a seat on the other end of the sofa and stared until she acknowledged him.

"What do you want?" Between her pursed lips and the giant reading glasses she was wearing, she looked a lot like a barn owl.

He looked at her expectantly. "Well?"

"Well, what?"

"What was that!" he said, gesturing to the kitchen table where they met that afternoon.

She went back to arranging her notes. "I don't understand the question."

"Yes, you bloody well do."

"I thought you might thank me, but I suppose it's more within your character to curse at me instead."

He hated when she had the upper hand. He could tell she enjoyed toying with him, knowing she had something he wanted. "Why. Did. You. Lie?" he asked pointedly.

She shrugged. "I wanted to keep my job."

"You wouldn't have lost your job, _I_ would have. And then you'd get a replacement, which is what you wanted this whole time. What the hell is going on here, Granger? What gives?"

She knit her eyebrows. "Does one always need a reason to do nice things? Not all of us think as cynically and selfishly as you Slytherins. Sometimes people are just nice."

He stiffened. Part of him wanted to yell at her that no, people in his life generally didn't do nice things for no reason. In actuality, that _wasn't_ something he was used to. "I apologize for asking. I reckon I'm just too cold and unfeeling to understand why you'd act against logic," he said coldly.

She finally set aside her notes and faced him straight on, looking impatient. "Are you really mad at me for doing something nice?"

"No, I'm mad that you won't tell me _why_ you did it."

Looking at him straight in the eyes, she asked: "Fine. Here's a question for you, then: why didn't you turn us to into your aunt?"

He blinked, ice settling in his stomach. That came out of nowhere. "What?"

"When we were seventeen. At the manor, you didn't turn us in to Bel—to her." She still couldn't say Bellatrix's name out loud. "Why didn't you? You knew it was us."

Draco felt his bones turn cold as he recalled the day he was dragged into the ballroom of his home and the swollen face of Harry Potter was shoved so close he could smell his boyhood enemy's blood and sweat. He remembered how he had spent the previous two days killing Muggles for Nagini's dinner as punishment for refusing to torture a muggleborn Greyback captured. He remembered how he didn't want to deny it was Potter and risk being killed, but he also didn't want to admit that it was Potter and lose the one chance he had at escaping a world ruled by Voldemort.

His hands clenched into fists as he stared back at the woman he once watched writhe on the floor of his drawing room. She was accusing him, reminding him of his one redeeming moment. Pointing out he only had one selfless moment in his life to draw upon in an attempt to understand her kindness. She knew exactly what she was doing; she was bringing it up to taunt him, to remind him that he had no place questioning whatever mercy she had for him. She was reminding him that he should take what he could get.

"How dare you bring that up," he hissed to Hermione, his voice low and cold.

Her eyes narrowed to small slits. "How dare I? I'm _sorry_ , is it too much for you to talk about your few moments of humanity? Too much to think about how hard that time was for you? Let me tell you something, Malfoy. What you went through was _nothing_ compared to how we suffered. If I want to help you, I get to help you, and you don't get to come here and question why I would do something nice. You want to know why? Because I have compassion. And God, how I pity you if that's something you can't understand."

By the time she finished she was standing up, her papers strewn on the floor, her chest heaving. "Excuse me," she said as she stalked off to her room and slammed the door behind her.

Draco stayed silent—simmering, but silent. He had nothing to say to that. She was right; he didn't know how they suffered. The problem was, she didn't know how he suffered either. When the war was over, he was left with scars so thick he didn't even know how to accept kindness when it was extended to him.

* * *

He didn't know where she went for the rest of the night. It had only been a few hours since Kingsley gave him a firm reminder that he wasn't to let her out of his sight, and he'd already lost her.

When he went to the kitchen in her room to pour himself a drink, he found a note taped to the door: _Went to the lobby for drinks with Ginny. –H_

Bloody brilliant, so he had to wait for her to come back drunk. He thought he left those days behind him at Hogwarts, when he'd have to carry Pansy or Astoria or Millicent up to their beds early in the morning with their hair smelling of vomit. He couldn't imagine what Granger would smell like—with hair like hers, the stench probably stuck around for weeks.

He poured himself a glass of scotch and went back to work on the projector device he'd been working on in the morning. He hated the taste of the scotch but liked the calming effect it had on him. He would never admit it, but Muggle alcohol was much better than the wizarding type. They kept it simple, clean, and _concentrated_. It would take three Firewhiskeys to achieve the effect of one glass of scotch.

He went back to work on the blasted metal cube before it started to smoke and he cast it aside. Granger probably had some Muggle knowledge that he didn't. He took out his Pensieve device instead—he'd hesitantly named it a Prophesieve, but wasn't sure if it was too tacky. It took the shape of a half-dome, constructed out of a crystal ball that he'd sliced in half. In the middle there was a pool of water topped with a thin layer of mist. At the present, it functioned at the bare minimum: if he put a memory in and inserted his head, he'd relive the memory, and then he'd see different versions of the same memory, each one tweaked a little. His divination work was wrong—he needed the Prophesieve to extract information from the memory and use it to create a hypothetical future.

In his briefcase he had a collection of various herbs and other substances to brew what was known as the 'consumable eye'. According to Seers, it could give non-seers the power of prophecy for a limited amount of time. He had a theory that its addition to the Prophesieve would enhance the device's ability to see into the future. The potion, however, took weeks to brew and needed to be timed with the right phase of the moon. He'd begin work on it soon.

He was doing some reading when the clock struck eleven. Granger was still out with the Weasley girl. He wondered how she was doing—apparently she was pregnant. He always liked that one much more than the rest of Granger's group of friends. She was a successful Quidditch player and she had a fiery spirit that he enjoyed, something he occasionally saw in Granger, usually only when they were fighting. It was a shame that the she-Weasley had to go and get herself knocked up. She would be going the way of every other pureblood witch he knew: stuck as a housewife and mother by age twenty-five, which was usually the cutoff point for witches of respectable descent. If you weren't married off and popping out babies by then, you were seen as a failure.

He was twenty-five himself, but wizards had a little longer than witches before it became socially unacceptable to be single. Not that any of those stupid traditions mattered anymore, with half the pureblood families now dead, imprisoned, or in hiding. No one was left to give a shit if he was courting an acceptable woman, arranging his forks in the correct order, or matching his shoes to his suit. Freedom was liberating, but the structure-free reality of life without rules meant Draco was allowed to make as many mistakes as he wanted, and he was responsible for the consequences.

In the spirit of making good decisions, Draco poured out his remaining half glass of scotch and filled the glass with water instead. He figured one of them should probably be sober that evening.

Around eleven-thirty he heard Granger searching loudly for her room keys in the hallway. He rolled his eyes. It wasn't even midnight yet—but then again, Granger seemed like the kind of girl who was gone after her first couple drinks.

She stumbled into the room, her dress scrunched up on one side and her shoes dangling from her fingers. The she-Weasley looked sheepish behind her. "I didn't think she'd get this bad," she said. "She asked me to come visit after you two got into a fight. Tough day, I heard. She needed a drink, but obviously she had one too many."

Draco put down his glass and sighed. "It's fine."

"Will you be able to take care of her?"

"He won't take care of me!" Hermione shrieked, laughing. "He doesn't even know what it _means_ to be nice to someone. In fact, this is probably the perfect opportunity for him to kill me," she said, looking right at him, her eyes slightly glazed over. "It wouldn't be the first time. Remember that time you almost killed us in the Room of Require—"

"Hermione!" Ginny looked aghast. Draco clenched his jaw, but kept a stoic face. It wasn't the time or place.

"It's fine," he muttered. "You can go home, Weasley, I won't kill her." He tried to reach for Hermione's arm, but she pulled away and stalked off the bathroom, where she locked the door and started the shower.

"You promise you've got her?" asked Ginny worriedly.

"It's kind of my only job, Weasley. I promise not to kill her."

Ginny gave him an apologetic nod. "She doesn't mean it, you know. She's just really stressed, and she tends to take it out on others. She actually told me earlier that you haven't been as horrible as she expected. She said you've changed."

Her words didn't make Draco feel any better. Flashbacks of the Room of Requirement burning down were clouding his brain.

"I should get home," Ginny said. "Tell her to expect my owl in the morning."

The redhead Flooed out and left Draco to listen outside the bathroom door to make sure Hermione didn't slip in the bath.

He still didn't understand why he lied to cover for him, but he also still didn't completely understand why she lied about the incident with Amelia, or why she even agreed to travel with him in the first place. She seemed to hate him, but she kept giving him second chances. She called her forgiveness kindness, but to Draco, it felt like idiocy. Only a fool would repeat the same action over and over and expect a different outcome, and Granger was no fool. Or perhaps there was a dichotomy there: one could be clever in matters of the brain and ignorant in matters of the heart. Kindness was her hamartia.

When the water stopped, he repositioned himself casually on the couch as if he hadn't been waiting for her. Hermione emerged with a towel wrapped loosely around her chest, her hair plastered against her head and neck. Draco's gaze was immediately drawn to her semi-exposed breasts, which were normally covered by multiple layers of clothing.

"I'm going to bed," she said flatly.

"Fine," he said, looking down at her feet, the carpet, anywhere but her chest.

She shut herself in her room, but after a few moments, cracked the door open again and peered out at him. "I had a long day today. I'm sorry for bringing up the Room of Requirement. And that day at the Manor. "

He blinked. Granger, much like himself, didn't make a habit out of apologizing. Perhaps it was the alcohol. Either way, her words softened him. "I'm sorry it ever happened," he whispered back.

She nodded, but he could tell her eyes were still hazy with alcohol. He felt sad for a moment, realizing that come morning, she wouldn't remember their small exchange.

* * *

 **A/N: Review question—if you're alone this Valentine's Day, what are your plans? I'm going to eat a vegan cinnamon roll, spend time with friends, do some of my econ work, and read a book. [Honestly it sounds like a great night for me lol]**

 **Alternate question if you don't want to answer the first one: Do you think Hermione was fair to be so aggressive towards Draco?**

 **Next update should be this Saturday!**

 **-potato.**


	9. Hermione's Derriere

_songs: breathe (2 am)/anna nalick [for opening scene]_

 _uncharted/sara bareilles [for dialogue]_

 **Chapter Nine: Hermione's Derriere**

* * *

Hermione's nightmares usually happened at least once a month. At first, they were horrifying—they happened almost every night, and twice she ended up at St. Mungo's in a state of uncontrollable hysteria. There were nights Ron had to sleep on the couch just to make sure he didn't get injured when she thought he was a Death Eater. Over the years, with the help of therapy, potions, and one bizarre hypnosis session that Hermione walked out on, she managed to reduce her nightmares to once a month.

In the morning, Hermione rarely remembered anything that happened the night before. The only way she even knew she had a nightmare was the mess she made in her rage. She learned quickly to remove all fragile items from her bedroom to avoid any broken lamps or shattered mirrors the next morning. She also got into the habit of setting up protective wards to prevent herself from self-harm, and always slept with extra pillows to cushion her body in case she fell.

The first night she spent in the hotel with Malfoy, she was terrified to see he was staying in the same room as her for more than just privacy reasons reason. She didn't want to suffer one of her episodes and have him see it. Being completely out of control of her body was the ultimate vulnerability, and around Malfoy, she was always fighting for the upper hand. There was no room for vulnerability around him.

She was lucky enough to not have any nightmares until the night she made the very poor decision to go out drinking with Ginny. The night started out fine—she owled her friend, begging for her to come visit and save her from a miserable day, and Ginny Flooed over as fast as she could, knowing that Hermione was the type of friend who only asked for rescue when she really needed it.

They met at the hotel bar, where Ginny complained about the baby incubating in her belly, about how hormonal and moody she was, and how unhelpful Harry was at satisfying her weird food cravings. Hermione complained back about Draco, lamented the Daniel incident, and admitted how embarrassed she felt about having feelings for a man under the Imperius curse. Ginny tried to remind her that going on a date was a step in the right direction, but Hermione swore up and down it would be her last date for awhile.

By the end of the night, Hermione, being a lightweight, was much too tipsy and started yelling to the whole bar about what a prat her annoying, ferrety travel companion was. Ginny helped her back into her room, where Draco took over. She remembered vaguely yelling something at him before blacking out on her bed. She _really_ didn't handle her alcohol well.

The next morning, she found her hotel room in a wrecked mess and knew she must have had a nightmare: papers were scattered on the floor, a glass of water was shattered, and her comforter was stuffed under her bed. She sighed, a pounding headache compounding her frustration. " _Shit_ …"

She cleaned up quickly. A quick look in the mirror confirmed that her face was just as wrecked as her room was: her normally wide and clear eyes were puffy and bloodshot, and there was a dreary gray undertone to her skin. She quickly washed her face and tied back her hair before shuffling out of her room and into the shared living space. Hopefully she remembered to cast a silencing charm over her room so Malfoy didn't hear anything.

She found Draco was sitting at the small kitchen table in the shared part of their room eating a bagel. He was wearing his all-black uniform, leaning back in his chair with his feet on the table, his hair falling out of its combed position and into his eyes. "Morning, sunshine," he greeted.

She squinted. It was bright out and his unnaturally pale skin practically reflected the sunlight. "Morning," she mumbled.

"Rough night?"

She glared as she poured a bowl of cereal. Draco was flipping through a Muggle newspaper lazily, stopping briefly to read the sports section, which she knew he found fascinating. It amazed him that Muggles had more than one type of sport, and that most of them only involved one ball.

"I heard you stumbling about last night. Something broke—was it a mug? I'll have to make sure I don't let you near anything fragile next time you drink."

She paled. She must've been louder than she thought. "It was a glass of water."

"Well, be careful next time. I'm being watched carefully now, you know. I can't have you cutting yourself on any shards of glass."

"Thank you for the concern," she said sarcastically. Good. He thought the noise was because she was drunk.

"What's on the schedule for today?" he asked.

"We're going to meet with a local business that runs Madritaur fighting shows. It's a terribly exploitative industry." Hermione pulled her potion-making kit from her suitcase and rummaged for her hangover cure ingredients. She had everything but…

"Looking for bee's wings?" Draco asked. Hermione frowned. Bee's wings were a highly effective ingredient in pepper-up and hangover potions, but few people knew about its usefulness.

"How did you know?"

Draco waved her aside and emptied her entire bag of potion ingredients onto the table. "I guarantee you my hangover cure is better."

"Oh?" Hermione asked, hand on hip. After the war, several of her friends turned to alcohol to cope. She'd had countless opportunities to test out her formula until she found the best one.

"I'm a Malfoy," he said. "You don't survive this long as a Malfoy without copious amounts of scotch and whiskey."

She looked at him skeptically. "I really doubt yours could be better than mine."

He smirked. "Want to wager?"

"Two galleons," she offered.

"That's nothing!" he scoffed. "Two-hundred."

Hermione laughed. "I'm not betting you that much."

"Fine," he said. "I bet you one drink on me."

She cocked one eyebrow, grinning. "Deal."

Draco pulled out his charmed briefcase and extracted a full-scale potion-making set with every single ingredient Hermione could think of. He even knew how to use the stovetop instead of fire, which sped up the process two-fold. She wondered when he had the chance to learn all of this.

It took him just seven minutes total to whip his product up. Ceremoniously, he poured the thin liquid into a tall glass and pushed it over to her. It was green and smelled of mint.

"I flavor my potions," he explained. "I don't know why wizards don't always do that. It makes it go down so much easier."

Hermione couldn't hide how impressed she was. With a nod, she leaned her head back and downed the whole glass. It slid down easy with hardly any aftertaste, and tingled in a warm, fuzzy way in her stomach. Instantly, the heaviness in her eyelids disappeared and the cloudiness in her brain vanished. The sun wasn't as bright and the sound of Draco's voice wasn't deafening.

"Holy crap," she said.

Draco leaned back, looking smug. "I believe you owe me a drink, Granger."

"Write down your formula," she said, not caring if she was stroking his ego. "I want to compare processes."

"I couldn't do that. I worked hard to develop my unique process and I'm not about to share that with just anyone."

Now fully alert, Hermione wasn't in the mood for his antics. "Tell me! Part of innovation is sharing ideas."

"I'm not in the business of innovating," Draco said with a shrug as he put away his mason jars and test tubes full of fish scales and dried beans. "I'm more interested in winning free drinks."

Hermione scowled and sniffed the empty glass, trying to decipher a familiar-smelling ingredient that she couldn't quite place. Was it thistle? Rosemary? Something plant-based, for sure. "You're an ass," she said.

"A genius ass," he corrected.

He wasn't wrong, though; he had proved over and over that he was a very competent wizard. She wondered, briefly, what he could have been like if not for his parents. The way he worked with his potions, the proud look on his face when he showed her his extension charm—he was actually something of a nerd, just like her. An image of Malfoy in a blue Ravenclaw scarf with a pair of thick glasses bent over a book flashed in her mind and she had to stifle a giggle. Nerdy Malfoy would have been cute.

She thought of the argument they had yesterday and wondered if she should apologize. She wasn't sorry—in fact, she knew she was in the right, but she had an honest desire to avoid conflict between them.

"Malfoy?"

"Hm?" He was back to reading the sports magazine.

"I hope I wasn't rude when I came back last night."

He snorted. "You were more embarrassing than rude. Honestly, woman, I don't know if I'll be able to take you seriously after seeing you take two whole minutes to unlock a door."

She grimaced. As if she needed to give him another reason to not take her seriously. "Well, I just… I was having a rough night. I was embarrassed about what happened with Daniel—"

"I can understand why. It was like you'd suffered a lobotomy, the way you acted around him." Draco did an imitation of her, flailing his hands and batting his pale eyelashes.

"Bugger off," she said, shame washing over her again.

He shrugged and leaned back in his chair again, peering at her over his proud chin. Sometimes she thought he must practice his poses in his free time—there was no way a person naturally fell into such sculpture-like positions. "I hate when women dumb themselves down for men. You can do better than that, Granger."

"Can I, now?"

"Well, what else do you have to offer besides your brains?" She glared and he smirked. "Well, your brains and your arse, maybe."

She felt her cheeks burn. "Excuse me!" She recalled him making a comment about how she had no arse just a few weeks ago. Which one was it?

He chuckled. "Don't be too flattered. No one pays attention to your arse anyway, not when you have that horribly distracting lion's mane on your head." Hermione gave him a dirty look and he cocked his head curiously. "You know I'm joking, right?"

"It certainly doesn't sound that way."

He gave her a strange look. "Shut up. You know you're pretty. Objectively."

She blushed and looked down. Appearances were not something she cared too much about, and she'd forgotten how nice it was to be reminded that you weren't completely horrendous looking.

Clearing his throat awkwardly, Draco continued. "Tell me Granger, why were you on a date anyway?"

"What kind of question is that?"

"I didn't peg you for the dating type."

"How else does one meet people?"

"I suppose I imagined you just… falling into place with someone, like you did with Weasley. You simply aren't the flirting, seducing type," he said with a curious grin. "And if you didn't fall into place with someone, I suppose I thought you'd end up alone with a bunch of cats."

She glared. "I—"

"You hate me, I know," he finished for her.

"I don't hate you," she said flatly. "Not _actual_ hate, anyway."

He cocked an eyebrow. "I wasn't aware a fake type of hatred existed."

"Well, it does." Hermione sighed and started to clean up her potions ingredients. "I also wanted to say ahead of time that I'm sorry if I did anything foolish when I was drunk, and I'm also sorry for bringing up your aunt yesterday. I honestly didn't have an ulterior motive when I covered for you, I was just being a decent person."

Draco looked down at his lap, where his hands were fiddling with a vial of snake poison. "I suppose I'm just not used to decency for decency's sake."

"That's unfortunate."

He paused. "I won't apologize for following you to the bakery, though. It was my job to do so."

Hermione sighed. He was right, but she still hated feeling like she couldn't help protect herself—that Harry and Ron were communicating with Draco about people who might want to harm her and no one was telling her about it. She wanted in.

"Listen, Malfoy," she said slowly. "I don't like being left out of all this Auror business. It's one thing for you to be my 'bodyguard', but it's another thing entirely for me to be left in the dark."

"Talk to Potter and Weasley about that."

She rolled her eyes. "Harry and Ron have developed an even bigger God complex since becoming Aurors. I think they like the feeling of knowing more than me, or they feel like they need to protect me."

"Why would they do that?"

Hermione knew exactly why they would do that: they were both acutely aware of her nightmares, her panic attacks, and her anxiety, and they didn't want to be the ones to push her over the edge by scaring her. She despised becoming the weak one out of the three of them. "I don't know why they do that," she lied. "But I think I should be included in any investigations you're doing, especially if it pertains to my safety. I can be an asset."

Draco tilted his head to the side, mulling over her request. "They can't know I'm telling you anything."

"Promise."

"Fine," he agreed. "You deserve to know what's going on."

He acquiesced faster than she expected. She smiled genuinely. "Thank you."

"I'll go get the files from upstairs and we can discuss them before the meeting this afternoon."

* * *

The file on Lisa Bernet was extensive and thorough. Half-blood, mother was a witch, father was a Muggle, both were killed in the war. 21 years old, homeschooled under a private tutoring service, focused her studies on Transformative Magic, was pursuing a career in restorative beauty techniques. By all accounts she was a normal witch—shy, but friendly, smart, but not cocky. Her friends described her as elusive, but in the shy, introverted type of way. They couldn't imagine her doing anything evil, but could see her possibly getting roped into a bad crowd.

Included in the file were photos of her before and after the incident, as well as a transcript of her official questioning, which was only a few lines long—she refused to cooperate with the Ministry. According to the transcript, she was adept at Occulmency, which rendered Legilimency and Veritaserum useless.

Hermione looked up at Draco, who was watching her read the papers. "These people know what they're doing."

His steely eyes were somber. "They do."

"Considering she's half-blood and her parents were both killed in the war, and that Trentin is a muggle-born, it doesn't make any sense that they would be attacking Harry, Ron, and I."

"I theorized the same, but the higher-ups don't feel the need to take anything I say seriously."

She regarded him curiously "So what do you think?"

"I don't think it's the work of dark wizards," said Draco. "Obviously this girl and that Trentin man have no reason to be sympathizers of… of Voldemort." He shifted in his seat uncomfortably, obviously still afraid of his old master's name.

"I actually thought the same. It doesn't make any sense. Why would those who suffered at the hands of Voldemort and his followers be attacking the very people who brought Voldemort down?" Hermione's fingers were tapping quickly up and down on the table—she missed these puzzles. "They're obviously pawns, and I bet with repeated questioning Harry and Ron will get the truth out of one of them."

"I agree."

"I want to work with you here. I want to help develop this theory."

Draco scoffed. "There's nothing to help with. Even if we do come up with something, they're not going to listen to me."

She closed the file slowly, interlaced her fingers on the table, and looked over at him. "Did you do well in training?"

"Top of my class, both times."

"Ever get in trouble during the program?"

"I've grown up since Hogwarts. I don't go around causing shit for no reason."

"And you were respectful? Well-liked?"

"Well… I certainly wasn't a ray of fucking sunshine, but I made sure to mind my manners."

"Then I don't see why they wouldn't listen to you."

He barked a short laugh. " _I_ can."

"I'd back you up."

"Would you, now?" he said, a sarcastic smirk on his lips.

"I would."

"I don't recall asking for your help."

She shook her head. "I cannot for the life of me comprehend why you insist on being so prideful all the time. This is a symbiotic relationship here—I need you for information, and you need me to be taken seriously."

He nodded ever-so-slightly. "I suppose so."

"So quit being an arse."

"I'll quit being an arse when you quit being a nagging witch who shows up hopelessly drunk at night," he said smugly as he stood to put his mug in the small kitchen sink.

"That was one time! And it _certainly_ won't be happening again."

"Did I mention you couldn't even unlock the door?" he goaded in a sing-song voice as he walked away.

"You irritate me to no end," she grumbled under her breath, fighting back a small grin at their playful back-and-forth.

"The sentiment is mutual," he drawled as he retreated back to his bedroom.

* * *

Madrid, Spain, was one of the remaining places on Earth that still kept Madritaurs, a rare magical creature bred to be a more violent version of a regular bull. They could reach up to fifteen feet in length and weighed, on average, around 3,500 pounds. They had massively muscular legs, red eyes, multi-branched horns, and, to top it all off, they could snort fire out of their nostrils. Needless to say, Hermione was both thrilled and terrified to visit the creatures for an important meeting that afternoon.

Historically, Madritaurs were raised in captivity for entertainment purposes: they would be placed in crowded arenas where wizards would provoke them with stinging charms until they charged, at which point the wizards would tie them up, levitate them, or find other creative ways to torture them while the crowds cheered. Over the years, the Madritaur-fighting tradition had faded almost completely away, now seen as barbaric and cruel, save for one last stadium in Madrid, where a club of very antiquated wizards refused to release their animals.

The Ministry of Magic had taken an interest in rescuing the last of the Madritaurs after learning through their experimental magic department that Madritaur horn powder had powerful analgesic properties. Under the guise of actually caring about the animals, they approached Hermione about speaking to the owners of the last captive Madritaurs about turning them over, as it was nearly impossible to catch them in the wild.

While Hermione knew very well their intentions were far from compassionate, she agreed anyway, believing animal torture to be one of the most despicable crimes—only the most heartless can ruthlessly curse an animal with no defenses.

Hermione had so been looking forward to this, and as she looked over at the clock, she realized they were going to be late. "Shit," she said under her breath. "I need to get changed."

"Yes, the robe probably isn't the best choice," Draco drawled. He was lounging on the couch in her room, claiming that he heard something outside and needed to keep careful watch on her. Hermione pulled her fluffy robe tighter around her and made a face at him. Twenty quick minutes later, she was changed into that pearl-buttoned white top he'd purchased for her on their first day in France. She caught him raising his eyebrows at her, surprised, and she blushed again. There were several reasons she didn't often wear nice clothes, and one of them was the uncomfortable amount of extra attention from the opposite sex. Somehow, though, Malfoy's unintentional glance her way made her feel empowered instead of embarrassed.

"Better?" she asked.

Draco averted his eyes. "Don't flatter yourself too much."

They took a Portkey to an outdoor strip mall that was in dire need of reconstruction. Several teenagers milled around outside an old movie theatre, giggling and taking long drags of cigarettes; a few young men were leaning against the wall of an outlet store and staring at the women who passed by; and an old couple was sharing a soft pretzel next to a fountain that probably hadn't worked for at least a few years.

"How do we get there?" asked Draco. Hermione took out her notes, which she hadn't had time to review the previous night.

"According to Leonardo, the man in charge of the arena, we go to the janitor's closet between the bathrooms and tug on the lamp chain."

The bathrooms smelled heavily of piss and weed, and both Draco and Hermione rushed into the cramped janitor's closet and shut the door. They were squeezed into the dark, damp room, Hermione's face inches from Draco's.

"Pull the chain, then," she said, looking up at a short metal chain attached to a light bulb. Having a good six inches on her, he was obviously closer.

"Right," he said. He yanked and suddenly they were being pulled up and spit out into the seats of a gigantic arena. Hermione gasped.

"Whoa."

It was easily one of the largest stadiums she'd ever seen, probably half the size of the Quidditch World Cup stadium. The seats were long Colosseum-style concrete benches designed to cram as many people into the rows as possible. Draco sat down and looked at the dirt area below them with a faraway look in his eyes. "I think I've been here once."

"Really?" asked Hermione.

"When I was young… We traveled a lot, I wouldn't be surprised if we ended up here along the way."

He never spoke about his childhood, and Hermione was ready to pounce on the opportunity to pry. But before she could open her mouth to reply, a booming voice called out behind them, causing her to jump.

"Hello, there!" The owner of the bellowing call was a heavily overweight man wearing a button-down shirt and suspenders. He was bald but had one of the bushiest mustaches Hermione had ever seen, and his face was shiny from the heat.

"Hello," she greeted, extending a hand. "You must be Leonardo."

"In the flesh," he said with a flashy grin and a wink. "I am the man in charge of the Board of Directors who operate this arena." Hermione pinned him at around 50—the age when men started thinking it was funny or cute to flirt with younger women.

"This is my traveling partner, Draco Malfoy," Hermione said. Leonardo gave him a friendly nod—apparently the unpleasant associations most had with the Malfoy name had not reached this man. Hermione could see Draco visibly brighten at Leonardo's lack of hostility, and realized how horrible it would be to walk around expecting everyone to despise you.

Leonardo clapped his hands together and bounced up and down, grinning. "We're very excited to have you here, and hopefully to show you the many purposes of our arena space. If you'll follow me, please." He led them down under the seats to the ground level, past a locker room, a storage facility, through a cement tunnel, and then…an overwhelming stench of manure wafted over to them. Hermione coughed into her shirt sleeve.

"Smell 'em already, do you?" Leonardo laughed. "They're stinky, if nothing else."

He stopped at a corner and motioned for Hermione to go first. Hesitantly, she turned to find herself face-to-face with six Madritaurs enclosed by nothing but a few iron bars. Immediately the animals began to snort and paw at the ground, kicking up dirt and blowing fire at her shoes. She squeaked and took a step back.

"Still think they're so innocent now?" Leonardo asked, still smiling teasingly. Hermione was infuriated at how flippant he was about the creatures. She leaned forward again and took a closer look: the animal's flanks were covered with hairless spots where their skin had been burned or whipped so many times the hair couldn't grow back. One was missing an eye, another was stuck in the corner, its legs tangled with chains. She recoiled and bumped into Draco, who she was surprised to see was also repulsed by the sight.

Wanting to maintain some professionalism, Hermione hid her shock as best she could and turned to Leonardo with a tight-lipped smile. "This is certainly something."

"It's alright, Miss Granger, you can be honest."

One of the Madritaurs made a whiny groan noise and Hermione couldn't hold it in. "This is repugnant."

Leonardo nodded his head and walked towards the cages, his hands clasped behind his back. The Madritaur recoiled to the back of its cell, clearly associating something painful with the man. Hermione felt rage boiling in her stomach. "You know, I'm inclined to agree with you. It is really repugnant."

It was?

"I try my best to treat them well, but I have no idea how to handle dangerous creatures. Quite honestly, the only reason I keep them is because they bring in money." Leonardo sighed and looked at the fearful monster pitifully. "But with the rise of activism, Madritaur fighting brings in less and less profit every month. Last month we actually operated at a loss, which is why I was very interested in England's offer to take them off my hands."

The boiling anger subsided. "Really?"

"We would have to negotiate a fair amount for you to pay, but the Board already voted and has left the matter to my discretion. There have been a few members trying to get rid of the Madritaurs for a long time—but some of us old folks like the tradition. Nothing speaks louder than money, though, Miss Granger. We always respond well to money."

"The Ministry would be happy to negotiate a deal that would compensate you well for the animals," she said, fighting a grimace at the man's blatant sliminess.

Draco had turned away from both of them and was standing inches away from the cages, close enough to be burned if the Madritaur decided it didn't like him.

"Mr. Malfoy, you should probably step away," Leonardo said.

"I believe it likes me," Draco murmured. Hermione gasped as he extended one of his pale hands through the bars and stroked the animal on its bristly head. Huffing, the Madritaur bowed slightly, enjoying the scratch.

"Malfoy…" said Hermione. "How are you doing that?" She had, of course, read extensively on Madritaurs before their arrival and knew that when they were raised to fight, they were about as friendly as a blast-ended skrewt.

Draco continued to pet the Madritaur's head gently. "He likes it."

It was something of an amusing sight: Draco in his black uniform, his normally pointed face relaxed, looking in awe at the terrifyingly huge fire-breathing bull. Hermione beamed. She could imagine Hagrid would have taken him on as a star student in Care of Magical Creatures, if only Draco hadn't been such an asshat in their third year.

"Look at that," she said. "They wouldn't have been hard to handle if you were gentle with them."

Leonardo shifted nervously, as if expecting the animal to suddenly change its mind and burn Draco's skin clean off the bone. "Perhaps you have a special touch, Mr. Malfoy… We should probably go; the air down here is so stale. We can discuss the details upstairs."

Leonardo started up the staircase and Hermione eyed Draco in amusement as he whispered goodbye to the Madritaur before giving it a final scratch. "You two make a cute couple," she teased.

"You're just jealous it liked me better."

"Well, giant ugly monsters are generally attracted to one another."

He glared. "I'm not a giant ugly monster."

"Right, sorry. You're a _small_ , _average-looking_ monster."

"I'm not a monster," he said again, this time with more conviction.

Hermione noted this in her mind: _don't use the word monster_. Their friendship was a delicate verbal minefield. She couldn't be too cruel, but she also couldn't be too kind. She had to discover within the bounds of what was acceptable: small bites, coy teasing. He was a thousand-piece puzzle, and she loved the challenge of solving him.

"Fine," she said primly. "Let me rephrase again: you are a small, relatively attractive, annoying git."

Draco's eye sparkled mischievously. "You think I'm attractive?"

She rolled her eyes. "Objectively. Don't let it get to your head."

"Tell me more about how handsome I am."

"Your skin's too pale and you could split wood with that chin of yours," Hermione said. "But you have nice eyes and your hair is pretty."

Draco clutched at his heart, eyes wide, pretending to be flattered. "Granger… You're so _sweet_."

"Shut up," she said, starting up the stairs and leaving him alone with the bulls.

"You know, I quite like your eyes, too," he said in a mock-sweet tone. "And your arse really is quite impressive."

She covered her butt with her hands as she ran up the stairs, embarrassed. So he _did_ think she had a nice arse.

"You're a pig!" she called down to him as she ran. Despite her insult she could hear him laughing from the bottom of the stairs, the deep sound echoing off the cell walls and dancing up into her eardrums, a decidedly pleasant and serene noise like waves crashing onto cliffs, slowly eroding his sharp edges.

* * *

 **A/N: _Oooooh_ Draco likes Hermione's butt _ooooooh_. LOL, anyway, review question: _What type of job (if any) do you think Draco would end up working after Hogwarts?_ I don't particularly like him as an Auror, but that career path is a key element for the characterization/plot in this particular story.**

 **My goal is 75 reviews before next chapter! I'll give you a hint at what's coming next: the chapter title is 'A Duel and a Dance'.**

 **If there are any errors in this chapter, please tell me! I didn't pay as much attention while editing and there's likely some mistakes.**

 **-potato.**


	10. A Duel and a Dance

_songs: 'over my head'/the fray [for duel scene]_

 _'_ _no running from me'/toulouse [for dance scene]_

 **Chapter Ten: A Duel and a Dance**

* * *

Negotiations with Leonardo went smoothly. They settled on an agreement that the Ministry would pay a sum for the Madritaurs, which would be used for research purposes. Hermione was given a maximum amount to offer, but managed to come in 100 galleons under the amount she was budgeted. Spending Sunday mornings as a child haggling with sellers at the flea market with her dad had turned her into quite the negotiator. In the end, the Ministry would be making more than three times their money back once they harvested the Madritaur horns (which were shed every winter), and the animals would be given a more humane and comfortable home.

"Well, Leonardo, I am very happy we were able to come to an agreement," Hermione said as she filed away the papers they signed. They were sitting at the more exclusive stadium seats, ones that were on the ground floor of the arena and charmed to keep their occupants out of harm's way. "You know, I didn't ask—what else do you host here besides Madritaur shows?"

"Oh, the Madritaur fights only happen twice a month. They don't bring in the crowds they used to."

"Really?" Hermione was surprised; she assumed the animals were made to perform almost nightly. "So what do you do the rest of the time?"

Leonardo smiled mischievously. "I'm glad you asked." He waved his wand and a dome slowly materialized over the top of the stadium, blocking out the sun. Gigantic stadium lights buzzed on, glaring so fiercely that both Draco and Hermione had to shield their eyes. "Welcome to Europe's largest competitive dueling arena!"

Hermione blinked several times to adjust to the lights. "Come again?"

"It's a dueling arena! Twice a week we host competitive duelers who compete in a fight to the death. Well, not to the _actual_ death, of course. There are rules, and a very talented fellow designed bodysuits to protects participants from fatal harm."

Hermione had heard of underground dueling clubs before, but they were usually culturally taboo and not something communities generally encouraged.

"Is it popular?" Draco asked, unabashedly intrigued.

"Of course it is. It's the reason we've been able to phase out Madritaur fighting. We host anywhere from six to twelve duels a night on weekends depending on the skill level of the participants. There are regulars, and sometimes we allow newcomers to challenge regulars if they prove their talent." Leonardo spoke smugly, obviously very proud of his operation. "We run a safe and family-friendly operation here. Like I mentioned, we have specialty charmed suits competitors wear that prevent harm from actually happening to them. Let's say you send a blinding hex—your opponent would be blinded, but it would go away the moment the duel was over. Or if you sent over fire, they would feel warmth and pain, but they wouldn't _actually_ be burned."

The level of magic to achieve such protective wards was impressive, and even Hermione couldn't hide her curiosity. Leonardo smiled even more smugly. "You two wouldn't want to try it out, would you?"

Try it out? Hermione looked at Draco out of the corner of her eye and saw excitement painted clearly on his face. She was no stranger to duels: she'd attended Ron's Auror training practices countless times to be his opponent, and during her time teaching at Hogwarts she and Neville, who had taken the position of Herbology junior professor, would duel to keep their skills sharp. It might even be fun to duel Malfoy—she could use the opportunity to seek revenge for how irritating he was.

"We can try it," she agreed. "It might be fun."

Draco crossed his arms and smirked. "Are you sure you want to do that to yourself?"

Her eyes narrowed. "Watch your mouth, ferret. Don't want to say anything you might regret later."

Leonardo clapped his hands together enthusiastically. "Nothing like some competitive spirit! Let's go, then!"

Twenty minutes later they were standing on opposite sides of the arena, dressed in protective suits, wands at the ready. Leonardo was standing in the middle, going over the rules for a final time. "No Unforgivables, no continuing once your opponent has been on the ground for more than ten seconds, and try not to aim for the face, because the suits aren't perfect and we've had some accidents in the, er, head area. The protective wards don't extend past the neck."

Hermione realized, as she stood fifty feet away from Draco's raised wand, that she wasn't scared at all that he might hurt her. Just a few weeks ago she would've never agreed to a friendly duel with him; she would have been too suspicious that he'd use it as an opportunity to kill her. But now, there was a substantial level of trust between them. They were even maybe friends.

His eyes met hers briefly and she saw he was smirking, but there was no malice in his eyes, just playfulness. She gripped her wand tighter and twisted her lips into the best challenging smirk she could manage. "You ready, ferret?"

He didn't say anything back, just winked in a way that made Hermione's fingers and toes tingle.

"Once I call time, you both drop your wands, okay?" Leonardo finished. Both parties nodded. "Okay, on my count—Three—Two—One— _Begin_!"

Hermione threw up a shield just in time for Draco's first jet of bright blue light to come barreling over. The spell bounced off the shield forcefully, causing her to stumble back. The spell ricocheted into a column, which turned to ice. A freezing charm—uncommon, but not particularly powerful. She could have melted it in seconds.

Quickly, she snapped up the shield and sent a body-bind curse, which Draco easily deflected. She wanted to start off easy, test the waters.

"That all you got, Granger?" Draco called out lazily.

Hermione dug her heel into the dirt and glared. " _Clamorious_." A loud wail filled the arena, high-pitched and ear-splitting, distracting Draco for just the briefest of moments. She used the stall to transfigure a metal _'No Outside Food or Drinks'_ sign by the benches into a cloud of pointed arrows, which she sent flying at him. Draco hardly had time to dive to the side, and one arrow managed to pierce his arm.

For a moment, Hermione forgot about his protective suit and gasped. "Are you alright?"

Draco lifted himself up and smirked, the arrow still buried in his shoulder.  
"There's no room for concern in a duel, Granger, although it's nice to know you care."

Hermione flushed, but her wit was sharp as ever. "Sorry, Malfoy, I was just worried my magic might be too strong for you."

Draco yanked the arrow out of his arm with a grunt and threw it back at her, charming it midair to transform into a spiked ball that hurtled through the air so fast she could hear it whirring. She pointed her wand and blasted it into small pieces, the only thing she could think to do before it hit her, and ducked to avoid the spray of shrapnel.

From her ducked position she sent a trail of fire across the ground between them and watched it circle around him, making his body appear hazy in the heat. Instead of producing water, which was what she expected him to do, he flicked his wand and made the fire simply disappear. Impressive.

She couldn't think of anything clever so she sent a simple Stupefy to stall, which he blocked midair with a spell of his own. The two jets of light, hers red and his purple, struggled against one another in the sky. Hermione gritted her teeth and planted her feet firmly—he was pushing hard. Their eyes met beneath the light, gray against brown, and for some reason Hermione couldn't look away.

Suddenly there was a tickling feeling in her head—was he…?

"Are you trying Legilimency on me?" she yelled, quickly closing her mind off. Harry had trained her in Occlumency more than once since the war.

"You're good," Draco yelled back.

She knew this, of course, and it infuriated her that he thought otherwise, that he thought he could distract her by violating the most private part of her while they were dueling. Still holding his curse at bay, she turned to Leo, who was positively shaking with glee. "Is he allowed to do that?"

"I haven't a clue!" he practically sang. "No one's ever tried before!"

Newly determined to seek revenge, Hermione considered a complicated method of dueling she'd tried a few times before: simultaneous spells. It was a new branch of magic that hadn't been studied very thoroughly but had promise. She managed to achieve it with simple spells in the past, like casting a ' _lumos'_ and ' _scourgify'_ at the same time while cleaning dishes at night, but simultaneous offensive curses were a different story. It was extremely tricky, draining, and could easily backfire.

But then again, Malfoy just tried to invade her mind, they were both wearing protective suits anyway, and it was worth a try. Jaw clenching so tight it hurt and eyes narrowing into slits, Hermione stared up at their battling spells and willed her jet of red light to stay in place as she casted her next curse.

" _Confringo_!" she yelled. A second jet of white light burst from her wand, spiraling around the red one already in the air. Her _stupefy_ lingered for just a second longer until it died away, leaving Draco's purple curse to speed right at her. She dived to the floor and looked up just in time to see her _confringo_ hit the wall behind Draco, exploded into a thousand pieces and crumbled onto him, burying his body completely.

"Oh, my god!" she gasped, both shocked that her technique had worked and terrified that she hurt Draco.

Leo clapped his hands and bounced up and down. "Congratulations, Miss Granger! And don't worry about him—protective suits, remember?"

Hermione gaped at the man, really wondering if he could get any denser. "You said to watch the head!"

Leo paled. "Oh…"

The blood drained out of her face as watched the pile of rocks on the other side of the arena remain eerily still. "Oh, my god…" she repeated. She ran as fast as she could and began pulling rocks off the pile one by one with her hands. " _Malfoy_!"

"Miss Granger, use your wand!" Leo said wheezily as he jogged to meet her.

If she killed him, she'd never forgive herself. Why did she agree to this stupid duel? Merlin, she was so much more horrible at this job that she'd expected. She'd have to go back to Hogwarts and beg McGonagall for her position back, and that was only if she wasn't thrown in Azkaban for manslaughter.

And then there was the fact that he would be gone, and for some reason the thought of that made her feel sick. He was _just_ starting to grow on her. She only wanted to get him back for trying to invade her mind; she didn't want to _kill_ him.

She backed away from the rubble and buried her face in her hands—she was crying now, she didn't want to keep digging and uncover his dead body. From behind her palms she heard Leo removing the rocks with his wand, and then…

Coughing.

She yanked her hands away and blinked—there he was. He was bleeding profusely from his forehead and his entire body was covered in dust, but he was alive, and coughing, and…

And _smirking_.

Merlin, she went so far as to almost _kill_ him and she still couldn't wipe that insufferable smirk off his face.

"Are those tears, Granger?"

She sobbed again, this time in relief. "I thought I killed you!"

He laughed, which turned into a dust-induced cough. "Don't flatter yourself."

"You're bleeding."

He raised a hand to his forehead and looked at the bloodstained fingers curiously. "So I am."

"Are you okay?" she asked, still breathing heavily in worry.

"Well, I lost a duel to _you_ , so I'm not feeling particularly great about myself at the moment. Although that spell trick you pulled was very impressive, and I'm ashamed to admit I'd like you to teach that to me later."

She breathed a short laugh and wiped the last of her tears away. "I thought I was going to be sent to Azkaban."

Draco pulled himself out of the remaining rocks and tried, fruitlessly, to dust himself off. "For killing Draco Malfoy? They're more likely to throw you a parade."

She shook her head. "That's not true."

"Oh, yes. There would be confetti and floats and a giant banner depicting you standing over my dead body."

"Quit being dramatic."

He smirked again. "Don't worry, I won't tell anyone you cried over the thought of losing me."

"Oh, yes," she said sarcastically. "I really don't think I could have gone on without you."

He took a beat and gave her a strange look out of the corner of his eye, questioning wordlessly whether or not she was being completely facetious. This was the area of their verbal sparring Hermione didn't know how to navigate—the part where it became even the slightest bit sincere.

"We should go fix up that wound," she said quickly to detour the conversation.

"Right," he said briskly, wiping the curious look off his face. "Back to the hotel?"

"Try not to bleed out on the way there," Hermione said, easing her way back into the comfortable realm of teasing.

"Don't you want your parade?" he retorted. They both removed their protective gear and gave it back to Leonardo, who was grumbling about having to repair the exploded wall.

They continued their back-and-forth as they exited the arena. When Hermione turned to wave goodbye to Leonardo, she saw him giving her a knowing smile. She turned away immediately, embarrassed and horrified. She knew that smile; she'd given it to others a million times. It was the " _I know something you don't_ " smile, it was the " _You two don't even realize what you're doing_ " smile, it was the " _I can't wait for you two to figure it out_ " smile.

It was the " _Admit you like him_ " smile, and it made her want to vomit right then and there.

* * *

Once outside the arena, Hermione was ready to Apparate back to their hotel but Draco stopped her. "Isn't this our last day in Spain?" he asked.

"Yes. Tomorrow is Ireland, where they've enacted the first comprehensive set of laws protecting elfish rights. I'm going to see what effects the laws have had so I can bring concrete evidence of its success to the Ministry," she said.

"Right, well, I didn't get to see the city yet," he said, ignoring her tedious rambling. "Could we walk back?"

"Are you sure? It's a little far, and you're still bleeding."

Draco reached up to where his smooth porcelain skin was marred by a thick tear. "Could you conjure up a bandage real quick until we get back to the hotel?"

"I could, but it's rather deep," she said, reaching up to trace the wound gently. "Are you sure?"

"I think I can bloody well handle a cut, Granger," he said haughtily. Hermione rolled her eyes and pulled out her wand, discreetly conjuring up a padded bandage. She applied it tenderly, feeling bad when he winced at her touch. It was a rather deep wound, but he masked his pain well.

It was nearing sunset as they walked down the street through a farmer's market. Several vendors shouted at them, vying for their business, advertising bunches of plump grapes, cups of sliced mangos, and brightly colored hand-woven tapestries. Hermione found enough change in her pocket for a churro, which Draco declined to sample when she offered.

"It's a sweet," she said. "It has cinnamon and sugar."

"I'm quite alright, thank you."

"Are you sure?" she asked, taking a big bite and making a show out of moaning in enjoyment. For some reason, this made him look uncomfortable.

"Quite sure."

"Suit yourself."

The sky was a breathtaking mottled pink, yellow, and orange as the sun set behind an ancient Spanish cathedral. Small children were running around the marketplace, shouting and squealing as they played tag and hide-and-seek. In the distance, Hermione could hear faint guitar music playing.

"You've been to Spain, right?" she asked.

"Once or twice," he said without further explanation.

"You're well traveled, I assume?"

He nodded. "I am. Wealthy people love any excuse to spend money."

They walked in silence for a little longer; Hermione could hear the music growing louder down the street.

"Tell me, Granger, where did you learn about casting simultaneous spells?" he asked.

She grinned roguishly. "I know lots of things. I don't know if you noticed this about me, but I quite enjoy reading."

"Trust me, I noticed," he said with a roll of his eyes. "I've read about them, too, actually. I asked my father about them once and he told me never to attempt it, that it lead to the death of a wizard in 1677 named—"

"Geoff Remington, who tried to cast a shielding spell and a killing curse simultaneously," Hermione finished, unable to help herself. "While the tale is true, the idea that simultaneous spells are inherently deadly is wrong. Remington, like most wizards at the time, was not properly trained in magic, especially such serious and difficult magic. Attempting dual spells could certainly lead to harm and even death if the caster is not wholly in control of their power, experienced in casting both the spells they're attempting, and confident enough to carry it out. But if they meet those requirements, they should face no serious danger."

Draco appeared impressed. "So you obviously were in control of your power, experienced enough to carry out the spells, and determined enough to hurt me to succeed."

"Not entirely determined, it seems," she said wryly. "The first spell died a mere second or two after the second one was cast."

"Regardless, it was better than I've ever done. I was impressed."

She bowed her head, hiding her proud smile. "Thank you."

They rounded a corner and Hermione could hear the music clearly now—it was a small band performing in a clearing on the side of a shopping mall. A few people were crowded around them, listening to the music and swaying side to side.

"I spent a long time researching ancient types of magic after the war," Draco continued. "That's where I read about simultaneous spells."

"Oh?" Hermione asked. She liked when he talked about academia and research. He was nearly as passionate about it as she was, and he matched her knowledge in a way that few others could.

"I was particularly interested in theory of magic, which isn't something we learned much about at Hogwarts. But it's a fascinating, it's where you learn how to _create_ new magic rather than learn what already exists. It's why I like modifying objects, like my suitcase or the Pensieve."

He spoke with an unencumbered type of excitement that Hermione didn't think she'd ever seen in him before. So, magical innovation was his elfish liberation—that was what inspired him.

"Do you write about what you create?" she asked, prompting him to continue.

"I do. It's not enough to publish a book or a paper yet, but I might have enough someday."

She looked up at him curiously. "You really should look into a career in academia. I have connections, you know. I could help."

His grey eyes turned stormy. He shook his head. "Maybe someday. But right now… I have to do this." He motioned down at his black uniform. She wanted to ask him what he meant, but he didn't seem in the mood to discuss it further.

They reached the clearing where the musicians were playing a dramatic tune and Hermione paused to listen. Draco stood by her side, close enough for their hands to brush slightly. She swayed gently in time with the music, smiling and recalling the time Ron and George hired a mariachi band for her twenty-first birthday and made her dance the Macarena in front of everyone.

"Are you dancing?" Draco asked, his voice tinged with amusement.

She froze. "No."

"I think you were dancing," he teased.

"I haven't a clue what you're talking about."

Without warning, he grabbed her hand and pulled her closer to the musicians, who smiled at the pair knowingly, just as Leonardo had earlier. Hermione creased her eyebrows together. "What are you doing?"

"I'm getting my revenge for this." He pointed up at his forehead, where blood had already soaked through the white bandage. "You cut me open, so now you owe me a dance."

"Absolutely _not_ ," she hissed. The small crowd was staring at them now, waiting for a show.

With a devilish grin, Draco grasped Hermione's left hand firmly and placed his other palm lightly on a respectable section of her hip. She was surprised at how warm he was—somehow she always imagined his skin would feel like stone. He leaned in so close their noses almost touched. "Do you know how to tango, Granger?"

"Don't you dare," was her only response.

He chuckled lightly and spun her with ease so she faced the musicians, who played with renewed vigor in honor of the dancing couple. Hermione stepped on Draco's toe as hard as she could but he hardly noticed, just drew her in closer. She was eye-level with his neck, her chest pressed against his as they skipped and bowed. Her face was frozen in a wide-eyed, pursed-lips expression, unable to comprehend what in the name of Merlin's left testicle was happening.

" _Why are you doing this_?" she seethed. She heard his light chuckle in her left ear, making her shiver slightly.

"I told you. Revenge." He dipped her slightly and she felt her heart beat a little faster. "And because it bothers you. It amuses me greatly when you're bothered over insignificant things."

He lifted her back up and into a twirl and the crowd tittered and cheered, making Hermione flush. She tried to push Draco off of her, but he held on tight. "Okay, what gives?"

"I'll let you go if you admit I'm the more skilled wizard and that I have a better sense of humor."

"You're insufferable," she growled. "And this is harassment."

He spun her again. "I'm waiting."

He intertwined his hand with hers and swept her to the left with ease. He was quite good at dancing, she noted. He grabbed her waist again and pulled her even closer, eliciting a small surprised gasp. Her nose was a mere inch from his and she was close enough to see the flakes of silver in his gray eyes, which sparkled with humor. He was handsome like this, when he was teasing her. She suddenly felt doubly uncomfortable being so close to him. "Fine—you're a better wizard and you've got a better sense of humor," she said hurriedly.

Almost regretfully, Draco loosened his hold on her and she pulled away quickly, dusting herself off. They were far too physically close. It felt strange, wrong.

"You definitely aren't the better _witch_ , though," she clarified with a sly smile. "I am."

He lifted an eyebrow, smirked, and he looked as if he was going to grab her again, but a frail old woman with white hair, obviously a tourist, interrupted them. She had a disposable camera in one wrinkled hand.

"I took a photo of you two," she said jovially. "You make quite an adorable couple."

Draco guffawed and Hermione opened and closed her mouth like a fish. "We're not a couple!" she yelled at the woman, but it was too late—she had already walked off. Hermione had the odd urge to follow after her and clarify that she and Draco were not together, as if it were very important for the stranger to know she was not romantically linked with him in any way.

"I suppose the joke ended up being on me," Draco said as they walked away. "I led a group of strangers to believe _you_ were my girlfriend. Good thing they were just Muggles."

Hermione shuddered. "I'm no more keen on the idea than you are. Trust me."

In her head, she added another tally mark to the number of people who thought the two of them were involved: the reporter who photographed them in Paris, Daniel, who bought the magazine, Leo, who gave her that look, and now the old lady who took a photo of them dancing. That made four people.

 _Which is four too many_ , she thought to herself as they walked down the streets of Madrid together in the hazy evening sun, Draco still humming along to the music by her side.

* * *

 **A/N: I want to thank you all for the support I got last chapter! Lots of reviews analyzing, complimenting, and challenging how I'm developing D &H and I LOVE it. My critique of my own writing this chapter is that Draco probably wouldn't embarrass himself by dancing in public, but I liked the idea of him doing it just to spite Hermione for his amusement!**

 **If you leave a comment, please log in! I try to respond to all reviewers. Be my friend lmao. Review question: _Who do you think will realize their growing feelings first? Draco or Hermione?_**

 ** _[also, on a random note, the song 'no running from me' that i recommended is such a good song and you should all go listen to it even though it's on the fifty shades darker soundtrack. those movies blow but they have bomb soundtracks]_**

 **-potato.**


	11. A Question for a Question (Reprise)

_songs: how to save a life/the fray_

 _i will follow you into the dark (cover)/daniela andrade_

 **Chapter Eleven: A Question for a Question (Reprise)**

* * *

"I look like Frankenstein." Draco was staring at himself in the mirror. It was his last day with Hermione's 'stitches' in his head. She promised him a quick heal after their duel, but her hand shook so much and she seemed so nervous that she couldn't perform the spell properly and decided to sew him up instead. He protested wildly, but she casted a full body-bind to keep him still while she worked on him like a seamstress.

"You look fine. And how do you know who Frankenstein is?"

He pulled at his hair, trying to figure out the best way to hide the scar. "Wizards know about Frankenstein. In fact, the book was based off a real incident of some idiot who tried to revive their grandfather."

"Really?"

"You didn't know about that? Surprising."

"I don't know _everything_."

He huffed, unable to find a way to completely conceal his wound. "Well, you certainly behave like you do."

"Look, if you let me try again, I promise I can fix it this time—"

"Absolutely not!" he said, holding a hand up. "You're not getting anywhere near my face again."

"Fine. Keep the stitches in."

Apart from the gash on his face, Draco escaped their duel with nothing but his ego wounded. He had gone through months of training designed specifically to ensure he'd win duels against even the most experience wizards. But simultaneous spells… he'd never seen that before. Sure, she hadn't performed it _perfectly_ , but it was good enough to defeat him. He was going to make sure she showed him how she did it later, after his pride had time to recover.

He couldn't lie, though, he found her talent undeniably alluring. And then there was her concern that she'd _killed_ him. It would have been endearing it she hadn't been so ridiculously hysterical.

The pair was in Ireland now; it had been nearly a week since their duel in Spain. They'd grown undeniably more comfortable with one another, learning each other's habits and quirks. They had a steady banter that was easygoing and even enjoyable, and some evenings Hermione would actually come into his room and ask for his opinion on her work. She no longer did everything she could to avoid his presence, and he began to actually enjoy hers.

On this particular day, Hermione was supposed to have a meeting with the Kenmare Kestrels, an Irish Quidditch team interested in doing publicity for leprechaun rights. But the team had to cancel after coming down with food poisoning after drunkenly sharing some expired frozen food, leaving them with a free day to do as they wished.

"I have a request to make," Hermione asked. He frowned—she looked nervous, twisting a lock of her curly hair on her index finger. "I invited my friends over," she said in a blurred rush, as if he would be more inclined to agree if he couldn't understand what she was saying.

He groaned. He managed to keep his interaction with the she-Weasley under five minutes when she brought Hermione home intoxicated, but if they _all_ came over… He didn't know if he'd make it to tomorrow with all his sanity intact.

"You wouldn't have to stay of course," Hermione continued hurriedly. "I won't be here alone, so you could take the night off."

"Of course I have to stay," he said a little more aggressively than he intended. "Your butt-buddies are my bosses, aren't they?"

Hermione leaned against the wall next to the hallway mirror where Draco had been trying to fix his hair, and chewed on her lower lip. "Right. Forgot about that."

He knew the only reason she was even consulting with him in advance was because she still felt bad about crumbling an entire wall onto his head. Which, all things considered, was a justifiable reason to feel bad. Still, he knew he didn't _really_ have a say in the matter. She just wanted her guilt lifted so she could enjoy the night with her friends. It wouldn't be so horrible, though- their accommodations in Ireland were spacious, with a large living space and two separate rooms. At least he could hide away in his room for the evening.

"Well, you already invited them," Draco said dismissively. "So it doesn't really matter what I want."

"It does," she said unconvincingly.

"It's fine, Granger. I have my own room. You and your little friends are free to bake cupcakes or make friendship bracelets or do whatever you lot do while I read or work or carve a tally mark into the wall every time Weasley says something idiotic."

"You could spend the evening with us," she offered nervously.

Draco laughed loudly. "Granger, I would rather rip these stitches out one by one than spend time with you, Weasley, and Potter."

Hermione's brow furrowed and her eyes squinted in that familiar feisty way. "I apologize for offering. I was just thinking how you haven't mentioned missing any friends of your own."

This comment burned, and he bit his tongue to stop himself from saying something rash. She was right, though, he had no one to miss. All his former Hogwarts acquaintances had made themselves scarce after the war. He spoke to his mother regularly, but she… she wasn't his mother anymore.

"Look, Granger, I said I'm fine with your friends spending the evening. But I beg of you, please keep me out of it." His voice was firm and final, and she took the hint.

"Fine," she said bluntly. "I'll be making lasagna for dinner. I can save you a plate."

"Fine," he said back.

* * *

Draco was curled up on his bed waiting for his serving of eggplant lasagna to cool off when they arrived. He took attendance:

 _"_ _Hermione, I've missed you!"_ A man with a boyish voice—that was Potter.

 _"_ _You look beautiful!"_ Lilting and powerful—that one was the she-Weasley.

 _"_ _It smells fantastic in here."_ Loud, dumb, and tactless. No question who that was.

And then another voice was added into the mix, one Draco hadn't been expecting. _"I hope you didn't buy those flowers from the market. They have highly toxic pollen."_

This voice was high-pitched and floaty.

"I think those are just daisies, Luna," he heard Hermione respond.

Oh, Merlin's balls. They brought _Lovegood_? He considered casting a silencing charm to spare himself from the insanity. But then again, with enough alcohol Lovegood had the potential to be entertaining, and he had an entire bottle of scotch tucked away in his suitcase.

"I really do love that dress on you, Hermione," he heard Ginny say. He chuckled. Granger had spent at least thirty minutes trying on different outfits and posing in front of the full-length mirror in the living space before settling on a gray sweater-dress. He'd watched, amused, as she fussed with some tinted lip balm and a bottle of dried-up mascara.

"Who're you trying to impress?" he'd asked her. "Still hung up on Weasley?"

She snorted unattractively, her mouth hanging open as she tried to apply the mascara. "As if."

"You're not even going out anywhere."

He could tell she'd been embarrassed for being caught caring how she looked. "Can't I… I just want to…"

Draco smiled amusedly, deciding not to embarrass her further. "You look nice, Granger."

Her cheeks flushed and she crammed the mascara wand back into the tube. "I'm going to go check on the lasagna."

She really was quite the host; his mother would have been impressed. She made a picture-perfect dinner, set the table, poured drinks, and even conjured up those apparently poisonous daisies to give their hotel room a friendlier ambiance. She did a good job of hiding it, but Hermione Granger really did care what other people thought of her—or more specifically, she cared what her friends thought of her. Around him, she wasn't quite as put together.

Draco entertained himself with a drinking game: a sip every time Potter was annoyingly polite, Weasley belched or said something unseemly, the she-Weasley complained of being pregnant, or Luna mentioned something that didn't exist. Merlin, he didn't know how Granger dealt with them regularly.

Their conversations were boring: Quidditch, work, the famous Weasley joke shop, the baby. Granger spent an especially boring fifteen minutes practicing some of the big speech she was going to give at Ilvermorny in the coming week. She was right annoying about that speech—he swore he heard her rehearsing lines in her sleep once.

He did take special notice of how she spoke around them compared to how she was around him. She was lighter, happier, and laughed considerably more. But he could also hear the slightest bit of tension in her voice—she was more restrained. Almost _too_ polite. He couldn't see her, but he knew that fiery spark in her eyes that he always found pleasure in igniting was absent. Which was the more genuine Hermione: fresh flowers and tinkling laughter and polite conversation, or flushed cheeks and feisty wit and spirited banter?

He'd finished off a quarter bottle of his scotch before the clock had even hit nine, and decided that was enough of his drinking game for the night. He was barely tipsy, but letting his guard down in a hotel full of Weasleys, Potters, and a Lovegood was hardly a good idea. He settled in his bed and opened a difficult book of ancient runes he'd been trying to finish translating for his Prophesieve research. He was only fourteen lines in when he heard someone saying his name in the other room.

"…and with Malfoy on your case, I don't know how you're handling this, Hermione. You're much stronger than I could ever be."

He set aside the book and took two strides over to the door to listen. The bellowing voice was unmistakably Weasley's.

"Well, he's not so horrible when you get to know him." Draco felt a small swell of pride at the fact Hermione was defending him, even if the defense was that he 'wasn't so horrible'.

"That's good to hear." This floaty voice was Lovegood's. "He was very mean at school. I remember once he told me he hoped my radish earrings would rot and spread an infection to my ears."

Draco winced, not just because it was a rude and childish thing to say, but also because of how weak an insult it was. He could do so much better—Lovegood offered _so much_ material.

"He was rude at school," Hermione agreed. "More than rude, really. Made me cry myself to sleep more than once when we were younger."

"Mmm, I remember one of those nights," Ginny said. "When he first started calling her _Mudblood."_

Draco cringed at the way Ginny said the word, as if the syllables themselves were poison to the tongue. He remembered spitting the words to Hermione and relishing in how angry it made Potter and Weasley. The memory wasn't so gratifying twelve years later.

He heard Hermione sigh. "He wouldn't say it now, though. He's learned."

"That's good," said Ginny. "He was actually quite nice when I dropped you off that night when you were a little tipsy. He seemed genuinely concerned about you."

Ginny was now Draco's favorite of the group, he decided. Although it wasn't like she had much competition.

He heard Ron grunt. "I dunno. He might be nice now, but he still made my best friend feel subhuman. Sometimes it's hard to let that go."

Hermione scoffed lightly in agreement. "You know, I remember how scared I was to go to Hogwarts when I got my letter. I kept wondering if I'd be okay as a Muggleborn, if I'd be too far behind everyone else. And then I ended up being rather good at magic-"

"—Obnoxiously good," Ron interrupted.

"Hush," said Hermione. "I felt good about myself around everyone, I really felt like I belonged… except when Malfoy was around. God, he made me feel inferior. I used to even question whether or not I was worthy of magic."

Shame washed over Draco like an icy ocean wave. His goal _had_ been to shame her, to make her feel inferior. He just never imagined it had worked that well.

"Yeah, but you kinda squashed that idea every time you beat him in marks," he heard Potter say. Draco remembered the summer after his first year, when his father gave him the cane for letting a Mudblood outperform him in potions.

"Why are we even still talking about that git?" he heard Weasley asked.

"I don't know! Please, let's change the subject," Hermione said with that fake tinkling laugh.

Shame turned to embarrassment quickly and Draco reached to take another swig of scotch. He acknowledged repeatedly the errors of his past, and he thought, apparently wrongfully, that they had been forgiven. Apparently Hermione's forgiveness didn't extend outside of his immediate company. The alcohol burned as it hit his stomach, which was empty save for the small slice of lasagna Hermione gave him. His head began buzz pleasantly.

"What happened to ' _He's not so horrible when you get to know him_?'" mimicked Weasley.

"He's not horrible, not anymore. Now that he's older, he's actually quite nice company, but I still hate what he did to me. I'm making an effort to get to know him so this trip isn't miserable, not because I _like_ him. I wouldn't have spent time around him if I didn't have to."

Her words hit like a punch in the gut, hurting more than they should have. It was a mix of the nonchalance with which she spoke, the alcohol burning in his stomach, and the fact that he was made to sit like a dog in a cage while they insulted him that prompted Draco to do what he did next. In one swift movement, he swung his bedroom door open, made sure to glare openly at Hermione with as much rage as he could muster, and then stormed out of their hotel room altogether.

* * *

He sat at the edge of the bar and tried his best to expunge Hermione's shocked face from his memory.

Weasley, Potter, and the she-Weasel shut up the moment Draco stormed out of his bedroom, their eyes wide. Lovegood merely regarded him as she did most things: with vague wonder and intrigue. Hermione, on the other hand, appeared absolutely mortified. It was as if she'd forgotten he was in the building, just a thin wall away. She opened her mouth to say something, but he left before he could hear her protest.

The hotel bar was a safe refuge for the time being. He sat on the corner stool, brooding over a club soda, until the clock hit twelve, at which point he thought it safe to assume Hermione's friends were gone and she was asleep. When he got back to the room, it was to his great surprise that he found her curled up on the couch, back to wearing very Granger-like stretchy pants and a jumper, watching a film on her floating projector device.

"Oh, Malfoy," she said in a gentle voice, as if she'd been expecting him home and nothing had happened. "Come sit."

He stared blankly at the projection on the wall. He'd seen a few films, but they always gave him a headache. Too many colors. "I think I'm just going to go to bed—"

"Sit down?" she said again, voice pleading. "Please?"

Something about the sudden shift in her tone prompted Draco to do as she said.

The small amount of makeup she applied earlier was gone now and her hair was tied up into a frizzy bun, returning her to her normal appearance. She was a rather plain woman, but it was a comforting, warm, calming plain. Her eyes were big, her nose small and dusted with freckles, and her lips always pink, even without lipstick. Her eyebrows were too bushy and her cheeks too full, but she was still quite pretty. She was snuggled under a thick sand-colored knit blanket, watching the screen, where a baby deer and rabbit were talking.

 _Ridiculous_ , thought Draco. _Deer and rabbits can't talk_.

"What are you watching?" he asked.

"Do you know what this is?"

"It's a film."

She smiled, impressed. "It's called _Bambi_. It's a children's film."

"What's it about?"

"Well, that deer there is named Bambi. The film is about his life: he's born in the forest, which is protected by an older deer named the Great Prince who helps keep the animals from being killed by the Man—that's what they call human hunters. Bambi starts out fearful and very attached to his mother, but he grows up and learns to be strong. Eventually his mother is shot and killed by a hunter, and the Great Prince tells Bambi that he's his father, and shows him how to be brave. Bambi grows up and falls in love and ends up saving his doe, Faline, from being killed as well."

Draco thought the explanation was finished there, but then Granger took a breath and launched into a history of the film. He stared at the screen the entire time she babbled on, noticing how little he was bothered by her ramblings. In fact, he rather enjoyed listening to her sound off like a living, breathing encyclopedia. On screen he watched Bambi cuddle up against his mother and thought guiltily of the time his own father took him hunting when he was a child—it was one of Draco's most scarring experiences. He didn't realize a creature as small as a doe could have so much blood in it.

He settled in to watch the film, but after a moment Draco noticed Hermione had stopped watching the screen and was watching him instead.

"I didn't realize you could hear us talking," she finally said quietly.

So they _were_ going to discuss what happened. He sighed, keeping his eyes trained on Bambi. "Does that make it okay?"

"No. But people say a lot of things they would never mean for others to hear."

He pursed his lips. "I don't like being lied to—if you still despise me, just tell me so. It didn't anger me that you said what you did, I simply was under the assumption that I had been forgiven."

"It's not easy to forgive someone when they've never apologized."

His stomach panged. Had he really never apologized? It wasn't hard to believe—apologies were not something that came easily to him.

"I _have_ forgiven you," she continued, "And I never said I still despise you. I even told them that you're good company. But when I'm around the friends who have always loved and supported me, and I remember how worthless you used to make me feel… I remember the resentment I had towards you. You can't be blame me for that. I only said that I didn't want to talk about the times you made me feel miserable, not that I hate who you are now."

He hated how damned reasonable she always was—it made it impossible to argue with her.

"While I stand by my _reasons_ for saying what I did, I apologize for having said it at all. You _were_ a right git and pain in my ass, but you've proven over and over that you're a good man now."

He could tell it took a lot of her to admit her mistake, but he still wasn't sure he believed her. "But am I really changed? You can't seem to let it go. I was evil."

"You weren't evil—you were an asshole," she said matter-of-factly.

"Is there a difference?"

"Of course. One can grow out of being an asshole. But evil? Evil stays with you. Evil is a part of you."

He knew they were talking about his younger days, when he was just an insecure bully, but he couldn't help but think of his 16th birthday, when he was branded with the Dark Mark and given the task of killing Dumbledore. Something like that couldn't be waved aside as just being an arse. _That_ was evil, wasn't it? The skin on his left forearm itched—if there was any reminder of the fact mistakes stayed with someone, it was the mark permanently etched onto his alabaster skin.

"Are you cold?" Hermione asked out of the blue. Draco was sitting stiffly on the opposite side of the couch wearing a black t-shirt and slacks. She kicked up the bottom of her blanket. "Get underneath."

Hermione's body heat had created a bubble of warmth underneath the blanket that was pleasant and made him a touch sleepy.

"When did Potter and company leave?" he asked.

"I kicked them out just before you came back. I forgot just how exhausting my friends could be." She sank down further on the couch to snuggle against a throw pillow. One of her legs brushed against Draco's as she wiggled and he jerked back as if her skin was poison ivy. She didn't seem to notice his spasm and wiggled even more, eventually settling with foot pressed against his outer thigh. He froze, unable to squirm away any further from her, and resigned to the much-too-intimate position.

"Ginny was also really tired, being pregnant and all, and I love Luna, but I can't handle the girl for more than a few hours at a time."

Draco couldn't understand how anyone could handle Lovegood for more than a few _minutes_ at a time.

Her voice was heavy with nostalgia. "But it's always lovely to see friends after being away, you know?"

He chuckled dryly. "I really don't."

His humor may have been a touch too dark for Hermione, because her smile melted away. She looked at him curiously. "Let's play the question game," she suggested.

"What?"

"The game we played in Paris—the question game."

"I don't know," he said hesitantly, still acutely aware of her foot on his thigh.

"I'll go first," she said, ignoring his objection. "Who's your closest friend?"

"You know, if you wanted to ask me a question, you're welcome to simply go ahead. You don't need to make a game out of it."

"I prefer the game," she said mysteriously.

"Okay. I don't have a closest friend."

" _Everyone_ has someone who is objectively their closest friend," Hermione said in a very bossy manner.

"What are the metrics by which one calculates who their closest friend is?"

"Time spent with them, time spent actually enjoying their company, how much they know about you. Things of that nature."

Draco looked at her sideways teasingly. "Then I guess it's you."

She blinked twice. "What?"

"Objectively speaking, I have most recently spent the most time with you and have shared the most things about myself with you. I don't know if I've necessarily _enjoyed_ your company, but I've spent almost all of my time in it, so… Congratulations. It's you."

Hermione squirmed, flustered. He could tell how uncomfortable she became whenever he said anything remotely flattering to her, even if it was as a joke, and it entertained him. As she squirmed her leg pressed firmer on his thigh, making him flush as well. "I didn't mean what I said earlier about how I wouldn't spend time with you outside of this if I didn't have to. You make good conversation. I meant it when I said we could maybe be friends one day."

He didn't know how to properly react to this moment of sincerity, so he diverted the conversation. "My turn," he said. "Why are you so giggly around your friends?"

She frowned. "I am not giggly."

"You are," he said, straightening his back and turning up his chin to mimic her. "Ha-ha _Ronnie_ , you are so very _funny_ with you speak with your mouth full!"

"I do not sound like that."

"You do so. You never giggle in that silly way around me."

"Do you ever think that might be because you're just not fun to be around?"

He frowned. "Really?"

Hermione rolled her eyes. "No. Whenever did you start taking everything I say so seriously?"

"It's the _question game_ ," he said. "I take this matter very seriously."

She thought for a moment. "I suppose I giggle more around them because that's just who I am with them. Doesn't everyone behave a little differently around different people? Around Kingsley and the other ministry folk, I'm more polite and formal, around my family I'm more relaxed, around my friends I'm more giggly, around you, I'm more…" She paused, searching for words.

"Angry?" he offered. "Snarky? Bitchy?"

"I was going to say _challenged_ ," she said, laughing. "But I guess I'm a little bitchy, too." The giggly-ness she had around her friends still lingered; there wasn't as much bite to her words as there usually was. She was genuinely laughing around him and he liked the sound of it, like wind chimes in a heavy breeze.

"So which one of those personalities is the real one?" he asked.

"I suppose they're all the real one. Is there even such a thing as one genuine personality? Aren't we all defined by how others perceive us?" she said airily. He fought the urge to roll his eyes at her ridiculously philosophical answer.

"Okay, then which one is your favorite version of yourself?"

"That's your third extra question! It's my turn."

"Fine," he grumbled.

She ran her fingers up through her hair, releasing a few frizzy strands that stood up like they were electrocuted. "How do you know what a film is?" she asked.

"I've seen one before."

"Really?" she laughed. "Draco Malfoy watching a Muggle film? Which one?"

"I don't remember," he said dismissively. "I think there were dinosaurs in it."

"Jurassic Park!" she exclaimed and he nodded. "Oh, I loved that one as a child. John Williams is such a beautiful composer… I wish he could make a soundtrack to my life. How did you end up watching a movie?"

"Ah-ah, my turn," he said. As he tried to think of a good question, Hermione snuggled further into the couch and yawned deeply, her eyes slightly hooded. She was beginning to fall asleep. He thought of the one topic he'd been terribly curious about since seeing Granger again, but wasn't sure if it violated their "don't talk about the war" agreement. She yawned again sleepily and he decided to just ask.

"Tell me how you broke into Gringotts."

A mischievous grin broke out on Hermione's face, making her eyes crinkle. "I'm sure you've heard enough rumors to piece that story together."

There were a million versions of the story that circulated by mouth after the war: that they killed security goblins with a magical sword, that Potter snuck in using nothing but his invisibility cloak, that they cloned Bellatrix, that they freed six dragons in the process. The trio themselves declined to divulge the details of the incident, explaining that they didn't want to give real criminals any ideas. Bloody Gryffindors.

"Of course I heard the rumors, but I want to hear what really happened. In fact, I'm not sure I believe you really did it."

"Oh, we did," she said smugly. "Or, should I say, _I_ did. I planned every step of it."

"It wasn't Potter?" he asked.

She rolled her eyes. "Everyone thinks Harry did everything on his own. Harry's an amazing man and he did many great things, but he would've died our first year if it weren't for Ron and me."

"So what was your plan?"

She had a faraway look in her eyes, as if recalling a story from decades past rather than an event that just happened a couple years ago. "I brewed Polyjuice using a hair from… Bellatrix."

Draco could see how much it pained her to say Bellatrix's name. His memories of his late aunt were similarly dark and haunted. He was glad when he found out the Weasley matriarch had killed her, if not also surprised.

"We transfigured Ron to make him look like Dragomir Despard, and Harry hid under his Invisibility Cloak along with Griphook, who we convinced to help us out."

"Wait—so you not only successfully brewed Polyjuice Potion, but you also got a goblin to help you out?"

"Oh, I brewed Polyjuice our second year," she said casually, as if this wasn't an advanced and complicated feat. "We got through the initial security, but I wasn't very convincing as Bellatrix, so Harry had to Imperius a few people—"

"Saint Potter performed an Unforgivable?" asked Draco incredulously. To the best of his knowledge, Harry's weapon of choice was a simple stunning spell.

"Only because we needed to. After that, we were able to get into the Lestrange vault after one of the goblins we Imperiused helped us get past the dragon that guarded the vaults."

"So there _were_ dragons!"

She smiled mischievously again, and Draco decided this was his favorite expression on her. It reminded him of how his Slytherin classmates always looked: as if they had a tremendous secret up their sleeve at all times.

"There was _a_ dragon. Singular," she clarified. "When we got into the vault, we found out that everything was charmed to burn and multiply whenever it was touched."

"Geminio and Flagrante," he murmured.

"Yes," she said, impressed. "We had to be careful, but eventually we found what we were looking for."

"Which was?"

"One of the horcruxes."

Draco nodded appreciatively. He, like nearly all of the wizarding world, learned about Voldemort's horcruxes after the war ended. The idea that the woman before him hunted them down and helped destroy them was remarkable.

"But by the time we finally found the horcrux, the other guards were alerted to our presence and were waiting outside the vault. So I made the impulsive decision to jump onto the half-blind, very angry dragon, blow up the passageway out, and let it carry us to freedom."

Draco gaped. "And that worked?"

"I'm of the opinion that it was half skill, half dumb luck."

"I'd say more like 75 percent luck... A _dragon_ ," he marveled. "If I escaped Gringotts on a dragon, I don't think I'd ever stop telling the story."

"Well, Ron definitely wanted to, but we respected Harry's decision to keep most of what happened during the war a secret. He deserved to have as private a life as he could after everything."

Draco snorted. Poor Saint Potter, always the center of attention.

"It's not easy to talk about it," she continued, a little defensive. "I agree with Harry's decision."

"You don't like to talk about it?"

She shifted uncomfortably. "Does anyone _like_ talking about the war?" She sighed and looked down at her toes. "It took more than just physical lives. It stole minds. It took sanity. And if we don't talk about it, then for moments out of our lives, we get to pretend we're whole again, and that feeling is more infinitely better than any bragging rights about flying on the back of a dragon. Feeling whole… That's worth so much more."

Funnily enough, he knew exactly what she was talking about, and never felt so close to her. He wanted to reach out and tell her that he knew _exactly_ what she was talking about, that that was the reason he couldn't let himself pursue a career in academia. He understood that the opportunity to redeem himself was worth so much more than inventing new spells. He wanted to tell her that the fact that Hermione Granger was sitting right next to him on a couch, having forgiven him, not yelling or looking at him with disgust, _that_ made him feel whole.

Hermione yawned again, this time stretching out both her arms and legs as far as they could go. As she extended her leg, she noticed for the first time that she'd been pressed up against Draco all night. He looked away, not wanting to embarrass her, but she didn't pull away. Instead, she relaxed her foot and left it where it was, lightly touching his leg.

"One more question," she said, "and then we should go to bed. We have to be in Massachusetts tomorrow."

"Okay," agreed Draco.

"What was the worst part for you?"

Her voice was small, timid. She looked down at her hands when she asked. Draco contemplated how honest he wanted to be with her. He felt this strange pull to tell her the truth, to tell her more than he needed to. The room was dark, lit only by the animation of Bambi projected on the wall; he was settled snug in the couch cushions with Hermione's foot touching him and he was distinctly aware of her presence. He felt oddly safe with her.

"The feeling of being stuck," he answered honestly.

"Stuck?"

He could feel his Mark tingle, his heartbeat quicken just a little. "The feeling of being backed into a corner. Like I didn't have a choice. I was either fucked one way, or fucked worse the other way. And I know that everyone always has a choice, but I was made to think I didn't. I never _felt_ like I had one."

"That's a very wise answer," Hermione said solemnly.

His heart slowed back to a normal pace. "Although, Voldemort living in my home comes in a very close second." She suppressed an uncomfortable giggle. He could tell she wasn't used to dark humor. "Lots of parts were the worst part, you know?"

He looked her in the eyes and saw something rather foreign to him: understanding. She nodded, and then she was shifting over to his side of the couch and her arms were wrapping around his shoulders very gently. He froze. "What are you doing?"

"I'm giving you a hug, you dummy."

She was delicate and warm like a well-worn sweater. Her breath tickled his ear and he couldn't help but smile for the briefest of moments. She waited for the movie to finish before she went to bed, but by the time the credits came up she was fast asleep on the couch. She fidgeted in her sleep, moving her legs onto his lap, trapping him. But he didn't mind—he wrapped himself tighter in the blanket and fell asleep on the couch beside her, deciding that this friendship, or trust, or honesty—whatever this was, whatever _she_ was… it felt nice.

* * *

 **A/N: Is it shitty to 'awww' at my own story? Whatever, I'll do it anyway. AWW.**

 **I've received a lot of comments on how Hermione is bratty/rude/annoying/aggressive, and I agree! She can be! The only difference is that I think she** ** _should_** **be. If you'd like to read my explanation, it's in my bio! :)**

 **If I recall correctly, this should be the last chapter where she's 'rude' to Draco. So yay! Now it'll be all fluffy'n'cute.**

 **…** **Or will it? (dun dun dunnnn)**

 _ **Review question: Hermione mentions that she wished John Williams could compose a soundtrack for her life (did you catch the joke lol i'm so funny) If you could choose any composer/artist/band to make a soundtrack for your life, who would it be?**_

 **-potato.**


	12. Draco's Revelation

_songs: everything has changed/taylor swift & ed sheeran _

_for the first time/the script_

 **Chapter Twelve: Draco's Revelation**

* * *

Draco spent one year of his life abroad in Rhode Island. He hadn't planned to flee the country and live like a hermit alone in a predominantly Muggle neighborhood across the ocean. It just sort of happened—after the war, he had to escape, to get away from it all. His mother had attempted suicide once, and after making her swear she wouldn't do it again, he packed a suitcase and took off.

That year was one of the best in his life. He spent most of his time working and experimenting. The Ministry had taken most of his family's valuables but he had enough money left to tide him over for the year. He knew it was only temporary, that he'd have to return to reality eventually, but he needed a break desperately. He'd been raised to hate Muggles but there was one thing about them he loved: they didn't know him. They treated him like anyone else. They didn't sneer at him, refuse to serve him at restaurants, or yell taunts at him as they passed him on the street. One Muggle man even complimented his 'tattoo'. Of course, he still felt them to be inferior—how could someone without magic be equal to someone who did?—but he discovered a certain acceptance for Muggles during his time living with them.

But like all good things, his time hiding away had to come to an end. One evening Draco received an owl informing him that his mother had tried to commit suicide again by erasing her memory, and he took that as a sign that his time in Rhode Island was over. He left the cottage by the ocean most off his inventions still in the basement and took off straight to Wiltshire to be with his mother. He moved back into the Manor even though it haunted him every night, along with the faces of the Muggles he tortured during the war, of the bloodied faces of the dead bodies he had to clean up and carry out of the Manor when Voldemort stayed at his home.

He settled his mother in an institution where she'd be safe and wouldn't be able to try to kill herself again, but the damage had already been done. She was a shell of a woman. He saw firsthand what would happen to him if he couldn't accept what had happened during the war, if he chose to hide away forever and never face what he had done.

So he made a resolution to himself: he would stop hiding. He would commit himself to something better. He would work as hard as he fucking could to redeem his name. He would be someone who was deserving of happiness.

He didn't expect to finally find that version of himself over a year later, back in the United States, with the last woman he ever thought would care for or about him.

* * *

Draco and Hermione were closing in on almost a month of travelling before they took off to the United States via portkey, which was Draco's least favorite method of transportation, but the only one safe for international trips. His displeasure as a result of portkey travel was only exacerbated by the fact that their Massachusetts accommodations were less than desirable. The pair found themselves in a cramped room with two twin beds beside one another. The wallpaper was peeling, the doorknob had a thin layer of grime on it, and gauging by a stain near the toilet, Draco was fairly sure someone had been murdered in the bathroom.

They spent their first day touring a local municipal government building and then attending a talk about bridging the barrier between Muggle and magical government. Their second day was twice as boring (a conference on the ethics of law), and when they got back to their hotel by mid afternoon, Hermione flopped onto her bed and fell right to sleep, claiming she needed rest before her speech at Ilvernmorny that night.

Draco settled onto his own bed and began reading, checking every few minutes to make sure Hermione's chest was still rising and falling as she slept. Ever since they'd fallen asleep together on the couch, he'd felt especially protective of her. The next morning he woke up alone on the couch. Hermione was busy brewing tea in the kitchen, humming as she worked, but he could still feel the blanket was warm where her legs had been lying on his lap. They didn't speak of the incident, but she was unusually friendly that day.

Eventually the cramped hotel room became stuffy and Draco relocated onto the balcony. The hotel had an excellent view of a rolling golf course upon which several men, appearing to be the size of ants in the distance, swatted balls and clapped one another on the back. Past the golf course he could see the very hazy coastline. The air was just faintly salty and reminded him of his year in Rhode Island.

He took diligent notes as he read, noting that an essential step to the development of a functioning Pensieve was casting complicated spells that would receive the memory. What he needed were spells that would not only read the memories, but also understand them. It would be a combination of fundamental magic and divination. But how would he achieve that?

He laid out his other notes and found his moon charts. It was the perfect night to start brewing the 'consumable eye'. Perhaps if he were to cast the ancient charms into the potion during the brewing process, he could successfully merge the two types of magic… It was a stretch, but stranger things had happened.

Time was lost to him as he got to work measuring, chopping, and boiling out on the patio. He hardly noticed the air grow cooler and the sun travel lower and lower in the sky.

"Is that it?"

Draco jumped in his seat, nearly knocking over his precious work. He looked behind him and saw Hermione standing in the balcony doorway. "Fuck, Granger, give a man a warning."

"Sorry," Hermione said. "I woke up and wanted to see what you were doing."

Draco looked up: the sky was turning dark. "How long have I been out here?"

"As long as I've been asleep. So… a few hours? You've made quite a mess."

He looked down at his book, which had ingredients and liquids staining its open pages. His cauldron was bubbling away on top of a portable stove. "Aren't you going to yell at me about defacing a book being against your religion or something?"

Hermione laughed. "You can repent by never dog-earing a book again."

"One of my few vices." So she'd noticed his habit of folding down book pages.

"So is this it? The Pensieve thing you told me about?"

He hesitated. He didn't like to share his work with anyone else until it had been perfected, but then again, Granger could be an asset. "Yes. It is. I'm having some trouble getting the Prophesieve to translate the memories and create new ones based on what it sees."

She pulled her hair loose from the bun it was held in. The front curls fell to frame her round face, which was so bulbous and smooth compared to his angular and sharp features. "Could I have a look?"

He explained the work he'd already done as she inspected the Prophesieve. "And you already performed a temporary storage charm to receive the memories?" she asked, still bent over and scrutinizing.

"Of course."

"And I see you've brewed the proper medium to transport the user into pseudo-reality."

"Yes. I had to try seventeen times before I finally got it." He waited, uncharacteristically nervous, for her verdict. Finally she looked up, eyes wide in awe. "This is incredible work, Draco."

He blinked, feeling his stomach unravel. "You think so?"

"I do," she breathed, setting it back down carefully. The mist waved in the wind. "Just getting that far is remarkable. I can't imagine the steps that go into replicating a Pensieve, let alone adding another property to its use. This must have taken you…"

"Years," he said. "Been working on it for a couple years now."

"I know this is your project, but I would love to help—"

"Please," he said. "I welcome your opinions."

She blinked. "Really?"

"I may have an unhealthy amount of pride, but I'm not above accepting assistance when it's offered. You're quite brilliant, too. One of the best people I can think of to help me out."

She smiled triumphantly, a glimmer in her eye. "You think I'm brilliant?"

He rolled his eyes. "Did I say brilliant? My mistake, I meant irritating."

"That's not what I heard." She turned to walk back into the hotel room and gave him a smirk over her shoulder, looking perhaps the most attractive he'd ever found her. "I heard Draco Malfoy call me _brilliant_."

* * *

"Are you ready to leave?"

While Draco cleaned up his potion work, Hermione had been in the bathroom for nearly thirty minutes, doing Merlin-knows-what to get ready for her speech. She finally emerged wearing a simple blue skirt, a matching blazer, and the flowing white blouse he bought for her on the first day of their trip. He felt a sort of odd tingle in his stomach when he saw her wearing it. Her lips were painted a distinct cranberry red and… was that makeup on her eyes?

"Granger, are you wearing makeup?"

She shifted back and forth on her heels nervously and blushed. "And so what if I am?"

"I didn't think you wore makeup. You're all… _feminist_ like that."

She huffed. "I don't know why you say that like it's a bad thing."

"It's not."

"Good. Because a woman can be a feminist and still wear makeup."

He smirked. The eyeliner one her left eye was slightly more crooked than the right—the poor woman didn't know what in the world she was doing. Still, the lipstick was nice. It was a warm color that made it look as if she stained her lips eating berries. She looked pretty.

"Are you going to get dressed?" she asked as she shoved some papers into her briefcase. "We've got to go in a few minutes."

He looked down. He was still wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt. "Oh, yeah." He hadn't expected Granger to dress up and now he felt the pressure to look nice as well. He found his last clean pair of black slacks and a black-button down, his standard uniform for when they went out. He took one look in the mirror and cringed: he had circles under his eyes and there was still a scabbing wound on his forehead. He pawed at his white-blonde hair, trying to cover the gash, and threw some cold water on his face to wake himself up.

"Come on!" she called through the bathroom door. "We're going to be late!"

Draco tugged at his hair one last time, then stepped out, looped his arm through Hermione's and pulled them through the air to the front entrance to Ilvermorny. They landed with a thump on the front grounds, which were frozen over. The castle itself was looming and ominously dark, bordered by tall evergreen trees, guarded by a wrought iron gate twisted into an intricate leafy design.

"Wow," Hermione whispered. "It's… intimidating. But also beautiful."

Draco nodded. The front grounds reminded him a little too much of Malfoy Manor for his liking, but the castle itself was stunning. He started towards the gate, but Hermione remained frozen in her feet.

"What's wrong?"

She was chewing on her lip nervously. "We're early, aren't we?"

He checked his watch, which told him they were right on time, and then looked at her curiously. "You're not scared, are you?"

" _No_ ," she said far too defensively.

"You wrote your whole speech, right?"

She nodded.

"And re-wrote it?"

Another nod.

"And then rehearsed it eight times?"

"Twelve, actually."

He laughed. "You are obnoxiously prepared for this speech, Granger."

She shifted from foot to foot, still chewing on her lip. "I _know_ that. It's just… this is a really large group of people, and there are people coming to the school _just_ to hear me speak, and this is somewhat of a diplomatic trip, you know, I'm speaking on behalf of _all_ of Great Britain…"

"Granger!" he said. "You're being stupid."

She glared. "That's not helpful."

He sighed and shook his head. "You're going to be great." He couldn't believe she was even the least bit nervous—there was no one he knew who could be more prepared for something than Hermione Granger.

"I will be…Right?"

He compulsively reached out and touched her shoulder without thinking. "You'll be bloody, annoyingly fantastic."

Hermione looked over at his hand on her shoulder with wide, confused eyes, and Draco suddenly realized he was touching her. "We're going to be late," Hermione said hastily.

Draco snatched his hand back. "Right."

They both put their heads down and walked up to the castle without further discussion. There were two fantastic marble statues outside the front doors to the castle—statues of the school's founders, according to Granger—that towered over them. The doors opened to a tall circular room with a wooden balcony that ran around the circumference of the second floor. There were four gigantic wooden statues of the four creatures representing Ilvermorny's houses.

Students walked busily along the balcony above them, chattering and giggling as they went. One spotted Draco and Hermione and squealed excitedly: "She's here!"

Draco looked sideways at Hermione, who smiled bashfully and suddenly became fascinated with a piece of lint on her shirt. "Pressure's on, Granger."

A door swung open behind the four wooden statues and out came a stern looking man with a bulbous nose and a sharp widow's peak. He wore dark blue and burgundy robes and a stern expression reminiscent of Professor McGonagall. When his dark black eyes settled on Hermione, however, he softened immediately and revealed a very toothy smile. "Miss Hermione Granger—we are so honored to have you with us tonight! I'm Algibert Fontaine, but please call me Al."

Hermione smiled politely and shook his hand. "Thank you. I'm honored to be here."

"Let me escort you into our theatre. Our students are very excited to hear you speak tonight, not least because they were otherwise going to spend the night doing dormitory inspections." Al winked, which softened his otherwise intense appearance. He escorted them past the wooden statues into a damp stone tunnel lit only by flickering candles. A few spiders scampered past his foot and he was reminded unpleasantly of the Slytherin dungeons.

"Faculty here use separate hallways than the students. We have private rooms for staff only accessible through the tunnels," Al explained. Above their heads, Draco could hear thundering feet and muffled chatting. Every few yards the tunnels splintered into identical separate paths, but Al seemed to have the route memorized.

Al turned to Draco as they walked. "I assume you are Draco Malfoy."

Draco gave a short nod. "Pleasure to meet you."

"Pleasure to have you. Miss Granger wrote ahead about your attendance. I hope you find your visit here to be both warm and pleasant."

Draco gave Hermione a look, but she refused to make eye contact, instead smiling to Al and complimenting Ilvermorny's beautiful architecture. Had she asked them to be polite to him?

After what seemed like endless walking, they arrived upon a half-dome door that opened to the backstage of a theater. There was a wooden podium hidden by a large red curtain, and behind it, Draco could hear students filing in noisily. Al clapped his hands together. "Well, I will leave you back here to prepare and rehearse as the rest of the students come in—they should all be ready and seated in just a few minutes."

Al disappeared behind the curtain, leaving Hermione to collapse into a bundle of nerves again. Immediately, she began to hum nervously and wring her hands as she paced back and forth. Draco scoffed. "Tell me you're not still frightened."

Instead of glaring as she typically did, Hermione just looked at him desperately. "There are so many of them out there!"

"Granger, you haven't even seen the crowd."

"I can hear them! And it sounds like… at least five hundred!"

Draco gazed at her with pity as she paced so vigorously that three curls fell out of her bun. "What can I do to calm you down?"

She stopped, one curl bouncing off her forehead. "Excuse me?"

"That's my job, no? To keep you safe? And if someone doesn't calm you down, I'm quite sure you'll kill yourself from nerves," he said smoothly.

"I don't—"

"You don't _need_ someone to help you, yes, I know," Draco finished for her in a bored tone. "But maybe you _want_ help."

She chewed her lip vigorously, torn between pride and desperation. Finally, she gave in to the latter. "I have a hard time being moderate. When I speak in front of large groups of people, I either speak so forcefully that I seem like a mad dictator, or I mumble and can't make eye contact. I do fine when I'm rehearsing with friends, but the moment I'm standing there, with hundreds of eyes on me…"

"You crumble under the pressure."

She finally released her lip, which was now swollen from being relentlessly gnawed on. "Yes."

Draco considered her briefly, then lifted the velvety red curtain and peered out at the crowd. Indeed, it was an intimidating sight: several hundred young faces waiting patiently for the event to begin, flanked by professors and visitors seated on the aisles of the auditorium. He searched the crowd for a single empty space and found one on the edge of the stairs leading up to the balcony seats.

"Okay, Granger," he said, sweeping the curtain shut. "Here's what I'm going to do, because for some reason, I am sympathizing with you tonight. I am going to sit out there in the crowd where you can see me, and if you feel like you're being too obnoxiously loud, I'll motion down like this." He lifted an open palm downwards. "And if you're being too quiet, I'll do the opposite. And if you don't take my cues, I'll charm your voice to be normal again."

Hermione scoffed but smiled out of the corner of her mouth nonetheless. "I'll hex you if you heckle me at all."

"Wouldn't _dream_ of it."

Behind them, the back door to the stage creaked open and Al climbed up onto the stage, looking slightly flustered. "We're running late! Miss Granger, if you'd follow me!"

Hermione gave Draco one last wide-eyed look before she was dragged out through the curtains and onto the stage. Shaking his head both in exasperation at her nerves and in surprise at his own kindness, Draco snuck off backstage and went to seek out the empty spot in the crowd.

* * *

Hermione's speech started out strong, and for the first several minutes, Draco couldn't understand why she was nervous. She did have a few funny habits: she blinked twice whenever she messed up a word and she kept pushing her flyaway hairs behind her ear even though they seemed determined to rest on her forehead. She checked in with him nervously a few times and he simply rolled his eyes in response, which he knew she knew meant she was doing fine. He found himself forgetting to pay attention to how fast or loud she was talking and ended up enraptured in the speech itself.

"When Harry told us—Ron and me—that he wouldn't be coming back to Hogwarts for our seventh and final year, we immediately swore we'd be going with him. No hesitation. And while I meant what I said and I would never go back on my word, the last thing in the world I really wanted to do was follow my 16 year old friend on a quest to destroy the most powerful dark wizard of all time. But there were several very important things that told me to stay with Harry: loyalty, love, and most of all, a commitment to what was right."

Draco's heart lurched at her words. He recalled the night his father told him he had been chosen by Voldemort to kill Dumbledore. Once his parents went to sleep, he packed a trunk, snuck to the drawing room and stood in front of the fireplace with a handful of Floo powder for hours. He'd planned to run away—to where, he didn't know, just anywhere but home. He stood there until the sun finally rose and chased him back into bed. He was too cowardly to run away, too scared for himself despite knowing somewhere deep inside the right thing to do was leave. He thought many times about what his decision would have been if he had the type of bond Potter, Weasley, and Granger had at Hogwarts. He wasn't strong enough to make the right choices on his own, but maybe some people just weren't. Maybe some people needed a push in the right direction.

"That's what I wanted to come here and talk to you about," Hermione continued. "I believe the most crucial and important quality for one to have is commitment and passion for what is good, righteous, and just. As young people, you are just now learning about the various injustices of the world and you're beginning to form opinions on many issues. When I was your age, I learned what prejudice felt like firsthand. I faced constant discrimination for my blood status: I was spat at, I was taken less seriously, and I was called 'Mudblood' more times than I could count."

Murmurs erupted in the crowd when she said 'Mudblood', a term now rightly seen as horribly offensive and discriminatory. Hermione paused and gave Draco a pointed look. Under the stage lights, standing proud and sure at the podium, she looked unprecedentedly powerful and… beautiful. She stared him down and despite his insurmountable pride, he found himself mouthing 'I'm sorry'.

The edges of Hermione's mouth curled up just slightly as she continued. "That's what I developed a passion for justice and equality I turned my frustration into motivation to work for something better. That passion, hope, and motivation was shared by countless other incredible people around me, and it ended up being enough to win a war. It's what pushed me into the line of work I do today. So I stand before you not to ask, but to _demand_ , that you find your passion and you work as hard as you can to leave behind a better world than the one you entered."

She ended her speech here, pausing before beginning the question and answer portion of the evening, and the entire theatre burst into rigorous applause. Hermione beamed, looking sheepish and nervous and proud and relieved all at once. Her eyes found Draco's again and she smiled toothily, mouthing to him: "Thank you." He blinked once and suddenly he saw her in a different light: she was powerful, strong, beautiful up there on the stage. Her eyes were kind but her shoulders were squared with pride, and then...

Then it happened: all at once he felt the shadow of her arms around him, hugging him loosely as she'd done the night in Ireland; he smelled faintly her comforting scent of old books and clean linen. He saw in his mind's eye her fiery gaze trained on him, felt the ground shake as she stomped angrily during one of their arguments, watched her lips turn up into a smirk as she found the perfect insult to toss at him, saw her impressed smile when she praised his work.

And then it hit him. He couldn't bring himself to smile back or clap along with the crowd because he was frozen in his seat, the applause drowning away to white noise in his ears, unable to process the realization that had briefly crossed his mind the moment Hermione finished her speech, brushed one of the curls away from her forehead, and smiled at him. He was too fundamentally shocked, too completely terrified by the thought that emerged from his mind like a parasite, one that he likely had subconsciously pushed away before but was now determined to lodge itself permanently in his brain as he looked up at the powerful and resilient woman before him:

That he, Draco Malfoy, might have feelings for Hermione Granger.

* * *

 **A/N: AHHHHHHH.**

 **Also please note that this does not mean he's now in love with her and wants to marry her and have babies with her. It just means he's somewhat attracted to her. Don't get too excited, y'all.**

 **This chapter went under some serious editing from its original version, and so reads a little clunkier than I hoped. Oh well. This story is in no way supposed to be an example of my best writing LOL**

 **Review question: Should I go on a second date with a guy I just met? I'm very conflicted. Someone help. I'm new at this 'casual dating' business.**

 **-potato.**


	13. A Joyride

_songs: anything could happen/ellie goulding_

 _good as gold/the apache relay_

 **Chapter Thirteen: A Joyride**

* * *

At the end of their visit to Ilvermorny, Hermione was positively skipping with happiness as they left the castle.

"I really thought I was going to muck it up!" she said to Draco as she replayed her speech in her mind. "I hate admitting it, but I really didn't have confidence in myself. That was _such_ a big crowd, after all! I'm just so pleased it went well. And that tour Al gave us afterwards—wasn't it amazing? I'll always think Hogwarts is magnificent, but Ilvermorny really holds its own. I wish _we_ had an indoor lake…"

She looked to Draco for confirmation that the night had gone splendidly, but he seemed to be trying to make as little eye contact with her as possible. Early in the evening he'd been quite polite towards her, even surprising her by sharing his work and offering to help when she was scared about her speech, but now he appeared to be back to his old habit of pretending they didn't like one another. It was no matter to her: she'd been making great strides in her effort to find humanity and friendship with Malfoy, and she'd given up on trying to understand why he sometimes fell into strange moods.

"You did well," he conceded flatly.

Once they were off school grounds, Hermione took Draco by the arm to Apparate them back to their Muggle hotel. By the time they finished Hermione's speech, question and answer, and an extensive tour of Ilvermorny, it was half past ten o'clock at night. Draco kicked off his boots, unbuttoned his cuffs, and with a heavy sigh fell backwards onto the armchair. "That was a long night. I didn't expect twelve and thirteen-year-olds to have so many questions."

"I thought they were insightful and important," said Hermione as she pulled her hair out of its bun and removed her earrings.

"Of course you did." He spoke in a clipped tone, but no amount of Malfoy's bitterness was going to ruin Hermione's chipper mood.

She was unbuckling her own shoes when she heard a rapping noise at the window. There was an owl, a gray one she recognized as Harry's. She opened the window and untied the letter eagerly. It was a thick manila envelope and it was… addressed to Draco.

She frowned. "It's for you."

"Me?"

"That was Harry's owl, and this is Harry's handwriting, but it's for you."

Draco sat up and she tossed him the envelope. "It's probably Auror stuff."

She sat next to him on his bed without invitation, and frowned when he shifted away from her uncomfortably. "You promised to share any Auror business with me, remember?"

"Oh, right," he muttered. He opened the letter and scanned it briefly before turning it over to her, his sour attitude slightly sweetened. "They finally caught Trentin Rewall," he said.

Hermione read the short note quickly— _Malfoy- We finally tracked down Rewall and have him in custody. He's not breaking under Veritaserum but we managed to get a glimpse through Legilimency. Hopefully with repeated interrogations we can break him. Full report to follow in the morning. We have a good feeling about this, but don't let your guard down. Take care of our Hermione. –HP_

She was so happy to hear the news that she didn't even mind Harry's paternalistic comment. She smiled brightly at Draco. "This is brilliant!"

He gave her a small grunt of agreement. "Hopefully they can get some information off of him."

"You know, I don't feel the slightest bit tired," she said, still riding her adrenaline high from her speech. "And I'm also rather hungry. We should eat. Celebrate. It's been a fantastic day."

"Order room service," suggested Draco.

"It's nearly eleven."

"So go to sleep."

Hermione crossed her arms. "I didn't get to eat anything for dinner, I'm craving something sweet, and I want to get food. If you won't come, then I'll just go on my own."

He crinkled his nose in frustration, still avoiding her gaze. "Fine, we'll get food. What do you want?"

Hermione was normally a relatively healthy eater, but she was really craving something greasy and fatty and full of sugar. "I want… crisps and a Coke."

"What?"

"It's food," she said, exasperated. "Come on, now, you were being so nice earlier. What happened? You promised to make an effort to be less miserable."

Draco heaved his body up from the armchair with an unintelligible grumble. "Fine. We'll go get you some 'Kook'."

Outside the air was frigid and cold. Hermione pulled the sleeves of her sweater over her fingers as her breath danced in the air before her eyes. It wasn't snowing here but the street was damp and the sidewalk icy. Outside the hotel the sidewalk ran underneath a highway bridge and past a country club with a golf course. In the opposite direction Hermione saw the telltale neon signs of a convenience store.

"It's freezing," complained Draco, who was still wearing his black button-down and crisp slacks. He blended in with the nighttime sky save for his pale face and hair, which practically glowed in the dark. She looked up at him but he quickly averted his sharp gaze away from her.

"You're a wizard," she reminded him. She flicked her wand and suddenly a cloud of warmth enveloped them both.

He mumbled something about her being a know-it-all under his breath.

"You're welcome," she said sweetly. There wouldn't be any bickering tonight if she could help it.

The first liquor store they reached was grimy; there were faded ice cream ads plastered on the wall and the fluorescent 'OPEN' sign flickered on and off as flies danced around it. A bored pock-marked teenager was sitting behind the counter playing a game on his phone. Draco wrinkled his nose and folded up his sleeves before tentatively stepping in. Hermione watched him survey the small store, looking both overwhelmed and disgusted.

He picked up a bottle of iced tea and inspected the label. "What the hell is _high fructose corn syrup_?"

"It's the leading cause of childhood obesity," joked Hermione as she looked for her favorite brand of crisps.

Draco dropped the bottle like it was poison. "Then why would you drink it?"

Hermione shrugged. "It tastes good. I only drink stuff like that on special occasions. Dentist parents."

As she picked out her liquor store supper, Draco trailed behind her with guarded fascination, sometimes picking up the packages she set aside to read the labels. He tried pronouncing some of the preservatives and ended up confusing himself more.

"Do you want to get something?" Hermione asked him, knowing he'd never eat Muggle food without some prompting.

"No," he said unconvincingly. She knew he hadn't had any supper either.

"You didn't eat Muggle food when you lived in Rhode Island?"

He shook his head. "Some of this stuff doesn't even look like food. I didn't trust it. I cook for myself."

"I'll pick something out for you," she said. After a few more minutes of deliberation, Hermione gathered several brightly colored packages and paid the bored teenager behind the register. As she turned to leave, she caught Draco staring at her curiously.

She smiled. "Everything okay?"

He yanked his head away quickly and nodded. "Let's go."

Even for Malfoy, he was being particularly moody and strange that night. Outside, Hermione leaned back against the handicapped railing and opened the bag of snacks. She handed him a small package with pink fireworks on the front. "Try these."

" _Pop Rocks?_ " he asked.

"You'll like it, it's candy. Closest thing Muggles have to magic."

He poured a few tiny pink rocks onto his palm. "What do I do with them?"

"Put it in your mouth, dimwit."

He glared. Cautiously, he raised the candy to his nose, sniffed, and deciding that it was safe, gently placed a few candy pieces on his tongue. Hermione watched his lips purse and his eyes grow wide as he tried to chew the candy.

"Granger!" he coughed, doubling over and spitting out the candy.

"I'm sorry," she said, laughing. "You don't like it?"

He gagged and threw the package at her. "Sod off."

"I thought you seemed glum! Needed something to cheer you up."

He shook his head, eyes watering. "Why would someone buy those? How did they even make it jump without magic?"

"Chemistry," she said. "Think of it as Muggle magic."

"That was horrid."

"I found it quite amusing." Even though she meant the prank in good fun, Draco remained grumpy. With a defeated sigh, she pulled out a sleeve of Oreos and handed them over to him. "These are normal, I promise."

* * *

The walk back to the hotel was a silent one, save for the sound of chewing and plastic crackling. Hermione tried humming, but was quickly shut down by her blond companion.

"Hush."

She frowned. "You _really_ are being testy tonight."

"It's only because you're so chipper."

"I don't know about you, but I prefer being happy over being miserable. If for whatever reason you prefer the latter, kindly leave me out of your misery."

He turned up his nose. "It's our thing."

She scoffed. "Our thing is making one another miserable?"

He shrugged, still refusing to look at her straight in the eye. She wondered if something happened at Ilvermorny that she hadn't noticed. Maybe it was something she said in her speech?

"It feels wrong when we don't fight," he said simply, as if this made perfect sense. She wondered if this was some strange side effect of having Narcissa and Lucius Malfoy as parents: expecting every healthy relationship to be distant and confrontational.

"Was it something I said?" she asked.

"What? No."

She folded her arms and stopped walking. They were nearly back at the hotel now. "It must have been, because you were behaving normally until my speech. Was it because I brought up the Mudblood thing? Because I told you I forgave you for that. I only brought it up because it was relevant to my story."

He leaned his head back and groaned. "Fuck, Granger, not everything is about _you_. I'm just in a shit mood."

Hermione sighed. In the corner of her eye she saw the golf course, where two golf carts were perched on top of a grass hill, and was reminded of the time Ron convinced her to steal her parents' car to teach him how to drive, and how he almost crashed them into a telephone pole. She felt a tug on her heartstrings when she thought of her friends, who didn't make it a hobby of theirs to irritate her.

"So because you're in a shit mood, I have to be in one, too? Do you get some sort of sick pleasure out of torturing me?" she demanded. She hated that she was playing into what he wanted—he wanted her to get riled up, he wanted to get a rise out of her.

Draco took a thoughtful bite of his Oreo. "Well, you make it rather easy, with that stick up your arse the size of a telephone pole."

Hermione stopped in her tracks, one hand on her hip. Whatever happened at Ilvermorny, whatever mood he was in—she wasn't having it. She'd tried to remain positive, but she was sick of it. She glanced over at the golf carts and in a fit of inspiration born from spending most of her time with Harry and Ron, she tossed her snacks to the floor and began walking at a brisk pace towards the chain link fence.

"Granger—what the fuck—"

Hermione jumped up and scaled the fence much faster than she thought she would and leapt over with ease, landing neatly on the other side with a smile on her lips. "What was that about a pole up my arse?"

"Get back over here. I will not be fired because you stupid Gryffindors are raised thinking trespassing is a fun way to pass the time."

On the other side of the fence, Hermione felt a rush of excitement that brought her back to her days at Hogwarts when they snuck out under Harry's invisibility cloak, stepping lightly, breathing quietly so as not to alert Mrs. Norris to their presence. As much as she always played the practical and responsible role in their trio, there was no denying how terrific an adrenaline rush felt.

"I will not get back over there," she sad stubbornly. "Not until you agree that you've been a giant arsehole since we got back from Ilvermorny."

His face grew red. "Granger, I swear…"

She grinned, knowing he had no real threat to make, and started to walk away from the fence. She heard him huff, there was a crack in the air, and then he was behind her, grabbing her arm.

"Did you Apparate?" she demanded.

"I had to," he said gruffly.

"A Muggle could have seen!"

He looked at her like she was stupid. "No one is out here. Do you know why? _Because this place is closed_. Which means we should leave."

Hermione tugged her arm away. "Since when did you become such a stickler for the rules?"

"Since when do you enjoy breaking them?"

She stared him down fiercely. "Since I decided it will not be our _thing_ to make each other miserable." With that, she took off running again, this time towards the golf carts. The wet grass squished under her sensible shoes and dampened her stockings and the cold air burned her lungs, but she kept running anyway. She was Hermione Granger! She was a war heroine! She had just delivered an amazing speech at an international wizarding school! She was doing important Ministry work for a good cause! She was happy, and she was defeated a small part of her anxiety, and goddamnit all if Draco Malfoy was going to ruin it for her.

"Granger, I swear to Salazar…"

"Do you remember Spain?" she asked. "You made me dance like an idiot, and I remember you saying something along the lines of— _You always get bothered over insignificant things._ Well, who's bothered now?"

He looked furious enough to kill, but she wasn't scared. "Come on, now!" She reached the first golf cart, gripped the roof, and swung her body into the driver's seat. The plastic steering wheel, however, was firmly locked into place.

Draco caught up to her, hands on knees, breathing hard. "Don't try… to operate… this _thing_ …"

"You mean a car?" She tapped the wheel with her wand. " _Alohomora_." Draco leapt backwards in fright as the cart rumbled to life.

"Bloody hell!"

"It's a golf cart, for god's sake. Wouldn't have expected you to be so scared of a Muggle machine," Hermione teased, relishing in her daring spirit. The dynamic she had with Malfoy was so different than with any of her other friends. Normally she was the mother of the group, but around him she got to play the role of the hardheaded Gryffindor who broke into Gringotts and told stories of her wartime adventures to auditoriums full of strangers, not the sensible bookworm who carried an entire library in her handbag. She smiled devilishly at Draco. "Get in or I run you over, Malfoy."

Caught between anger and terror, Draco made the calculated decision to climb gingerly into the passenger seat.

"Good choice. Now hold on," she said as she slammed her foot onto the gas, lurching the cart forward so fast it elicited a frightened yelp from Malfoy. She jerked the car left to avoid a pothole and then took them up a small hill, whooping as the car fell down the other side. Draco was gripping his seat so hard his knuckles were pink and he looked as if he might vomit.

"Come on, now," chuckled Hermione. "It's no worse than a portkey."

"No," said Malfoy queasily. "It is so _very_ much worse."

Hermione looped around the pristinely cut grass a few more times, waiting for Malfoy to get used to the sensation of driving. After a few minutes the nauseous look on his face subsided.

"Do you want to take a go at driving?" she offered.

"I would rather be eaten alive by the Great Squid," he said flatly

"If you don't cheer up I'm going to drive us both straight into that pond over there." She pointed at a brown pool of stagnant water that was probably home to many a poorly aimed golf ball.

"You wouldn't," said Draco.

"Oh, I think I would…" Hermione aimed the car at the pond and slowly made her way towards it.

"Turn it off now," said Draco urgently.

"I don't think I will…" she teased.

"You're fucking insane, woman."

She hadn't planned to actually scare him, but he _really_ was testing her nerves tonight. Throwing caution to the wind, she pressed her foot down as hard as she could on the gas, rocketing them straight towards the pond, ignoring Draco's fearful yelp, laughing in a free, bellowing way that she hadn't for too long. Just as they reached the bank of the pond and were a second from hitting the water, she grabbed Draco's arm and Apparated them back to the top of the hill where the other golf carts were parked.

They landed in a heap on the cold, wet grass, Draco on top of Hermione, crushing her with his weight. He was gasping heavily, trying to understand what just happened. His eyes were wide gray saucers, full of so much terror Hermione actually felt bad for him. When Draco realized his position atop her, he scrambled off with an embarrassed, flushed look on his face. He ran a frantic hand through his hair.

"What the _fuck_ , Granger."

Hermione, who was still laying flat on her back, giggled. "I wouldn't have really driven us into the water. I don't want to get wet, it's freezing outside."

"I had no idea how batshit you were." Draco flopped backwards onto the ground beside her and stared up at the sky. He was no more than a few inches away from her and she could feel the heat emanating from his body. Hermione looked over sideways at him: his eyes were wide with fear but his face was flushed with actual color, making him appear less like a marble statue and more like a human.

"I'm full of surprises," she said with a wink. "There are many things you have yet to learn about me, Draco Malfoy." She continued to stare, waiting for him to look over, but his eyes were fixated on the sky. His chest rose and fell slightly faster, his breaths appearing as small white puffs in the sky above his o-shaped mouth. After a moment he glanced at her, and upon realizing she was staring, made a small grunt.

"We should go," he said as he stood up abruptly.

"What, you don't want a second go in the golf cart?"

He crawled up to his feet and wiped the dew off his slacks, still avoiding her gaze. "Ha-ha."

She tapped the wheel of the second cart with her wand. "Are you _sure_ …?"

"Hermione, I want to _leave_ ," he snapped. "Now." He looked at her firmly in the eyes for the first time that night and she finally saw what he was trying so desperately to hide: a wild, almost feral fear behind his gray eyes, as if he were face-to-face with a serial murderer rather than a five-foot-two witch wearing an untucked dress shirt and clunky heels. It was a vulnerable, disconcerted, paralyzing type of fear that made her reach out to touch his arm.

"Malfoy, are you okay-?"

Before she could even finish her question, he sucked in his breath and Apparated away to the other side of the fence to where their discarded snacks were scattered on the sidewalk, leaving Hermione on the grassy hill, alone to ponder what in the world could be going on to make Draco Malfoy look so purely terrified.

* * *

 **A/N: This was one of the first scenes I wrote for this story (the story started out as several random scenes that I eventually strung together into a cohesive plotline) and it's one of my favorites! When reading Harry Potter, I always wondered why Hermione would go on all those adventures with the boys if she** ** _really_** **was so scared of getting caught. I think while she was genuinely concerned, she also secretly enjoyed the thrill but had to play the responsible role. With Draco, though, there's a different dynamic. At times (especially in this scene when he's acting cold) he can be even stiffer than she is, so she gets to play the role of the more carefree Gryffindor. Plus, she got revenge for the dancing thing.**

 **Tl;dr: it was a fun scene to write and I like this side of Hermione.**

 **Review question** ** _: What Muggle creation would be most fun to introduce to wizards? I always liked to imagine them eating Pop Rocks._**

 **[also: thanks to all those who gave me advice on the date business! I just got back from our second and it was really fantastic. we actually trespassed, which is fitting considering the content of this chapter!]**

 **-potato.**


	14. Mother Knows Best

_songs: 'science and faith'/the script_

 _'_ _shattered'/OAR_

 _'_ _you found me'/the fray_

 **Chapter Fourteen: Mother Knows Best**

* * *

Draco sat awake in bed for six hours after Hermione's little golf cart escapade. After his startling revelation at Ilvermorny, the only thing he wanted to do was sit in a dark corner, reflect on his life choices, and maybe end the evening by washing his brain with acid. He tried pushing away the feeling, tried to return to the way he felt before their 'friendship' ever happened. He brushed off her jokes and ignored her attempts to make pleasant conversation, but then Hermione decided it would be fun to drag him out to buy greasy Muggle food and nearly drive him into a pond.

The worst part was, he actually thought it was fun. After getting past the sensation that he might vomit at any moment, riding a golf cart was a lot like riding a really bumpy broomstick. And then there was Hermione herself, like he had never seen her before: eyes wild, hair even wilder, squealing with glee as she took them up and down the hills. He tried his best to keep his mind on other things, to avoid eye contact, but then she had to go and Apparate them away and he landed right on top of her. He felt her entire body shaking with laughter and her warm breath on his neck, and the amount he enjoyed the feeling made him nauseous.

He wondered if that was the type of thing she, Potter, and Weasley used to get up to when they were younger. He recalled their first year at Hogwarts, when he snuck out to catch them with Hagrid's illegal dragon, and how he felt jealousy more than anything else at the fact _he_ wasn't transporting dragons with _his_ friends. His friends didn't do much besides talk disparagingly about others, drink heavily, and occasionally play games of chess.

Maybe he didn't like _her_ , but rather the way he felt when he was around her. Those were two different things, right?

But then there was also the way she argued with him so passionately, and the way she made horrible jokes and laughed at them, and the way she got all huffy when he was being annoying. He tried to talk himself down by thinking about her tangled, bushy hair, but even that seemed endearing to him now.

Sweet Merlin, he was losing his mind. He'd been spending too much time around just her, and it was driving him mad. How was he expected to think rationally when his only company the past few weeks was a bloody Gryffindor?

Draco groaned and threw his head backwards onto his pillow, wondering if his friends and family would even recognize him anymore. He was in dire need of some Slytherin company.

Then, struck with an idea that hadn't occurred to him until that very moment, Draco pulled some parchment and a quill from his briefcase and began to write a letter. He was in need of some rescuing, and the only person he knew to turn to in moments like these was his mother.

* * *

Draco awoke the next morning to Hermione ripping off his bedsheets. "Malfoy, it's nearly ten-thirty! We were supposed to check out a half hour ago."

He groaned and pulled a pillow over his head. Judging by the bright rays of sun peeking through the window blinds, he had indeed slept in. Bugger.

"Get up!" she demanded, pulling at his pillow.

Circe, she was like a cross between an impatient toddler and a bossy mother. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, Draco rose from bed and dared to peer in the mirror: he was dissatisfied to see red eyes and hair so messy it put Potter's to shame. He tried to remember when he fell asleep the night before—the sky was tinged pink with the first rays of sunlight, so it had to be around seven in the morning.

"Malfoy!"

He groaned. "Give me a minute, will you?"

Five quick minutes later, he was changed and his things were tossed messily into his trunk. He went to the bathroom to take a piss and when he emerged, Hermione was waiting for him on the edge of her bed, arms crossed and leg bouncing impatiently. "We missed our portkey."

"We can Floo," he said. He went their itinerary last night and saw they'd be staying in an actual cottage that wasn't far from where they currently were in Pennsylvania. They would be staying there for two weeks, so the Ministry saw fit to give them an actual living space rather than another hotel room.

"They told me the Floo at the cottage hasn't been used in years. It might not even _work_ anymore."

He ran a hand through his hair and sighed. "I couldn't fall asleep last night and I overslept. But Floo seems like our only option right now. I'm sorry."

Her bouncing leg steadied. "You're sorry?"

He gritted his teeth, not in the mood for a psychological analysis about his willingness to apologize. "Yes. Now let's just try the Floo."

"Fine." She took her two suitcases, grabbed a handful of Floo powder, and stepped into the fireplace. "1500 Brandywine Place!"

With a flash of green she was gone, so Draco, taking this as a good sign, took a handful as well and followed suit. A moment later he was standing in a very dirty fireplace that exploded into a cloud of soot the moment he touched down. He felt the particles tickle his throat as he breathed. Somewhere in front of him, Hermione was coughing deeply.

"Merlin, they weren't lying when they said it hadn't been used for awhile."

"Or cleaned for awhile," she added.

He looked up at her and laughed. She was coated, head to toe, with a thin layer of soot. "Granger, you're covered in soot."

"As are you," she said. He looked down, and sure enough, his white dress shirt was spotted with ash. "It doesn't matter, it's not like we're going anywhere today." Hermione brushed off her t-shirt as best she could and then took a look around. They were in the living room, which looked like it had come straight out of a furniture store catalog. There were white armchairs with matching throw pillows, a seafoam blue rug, seashells on the wall, and a peaceful painting of a pier at sunset above the mantel.

"Why is the fireplace such a mess while the rest of this looks like it was just used for a bloody carpet cleaner commercial?"

"They probably rented it out to Muggles. They use fireplaces for actual fires." Hermione put down her bags and went to explore the rest of the cottage. "Oh, this kitchen is just adorable."

The kitchen was painted a pale yellow with white accents. Above the sink there was a window that opened up to a small backyard garden with overgrown tomatoes and a small apple tree, there was a cross stich by the stovetop that read 'Welcome Home', and the fridge sported several small magnets shaped like farm animals.

"It's… cozy," Draco said. "Not exactly my taste."

"I think our rooms are upstairs." Hermione turned the corner and went up the carpeted stairs up to a narrow hallway. "I want that one," she said, pointing to the bedroom with the larger window. The other room, which was substantially darker, suited Draco better anyway. He threw his briefcase onto the bed, and no sooner did he fall onto the pillow beside it did a loud tapping begin on his window.

It was his mother's barn owl, Ella. He opened the window and Ella swooped in and perched in a very noble fashion on the edge of his bedframe. For an owl, she was scarily clever and had perfect manners—no other creature could suit Narcissa Malfoy better.

He unwrapped the small scroll from Ella's leg and smiled at his mother's familiar narrow cursive.

 _Darling,_

 _I do appreciate hearing from you. I know you have been busy with work, and I have also been busy preparing for your father's upcoming work social. You remember how revolted the Rosiers were last year about the sausage mishap? That's what I get for believing some Knockturn peddler, thinking it was actual dragon meat. We won't have any similar incidences this year._

 _But I digress. Things are quite well back home, so don't you take a moment to worry about me. I'm very busy of course, picking décor and preparing menus, but I do think I can fit time in to Floo you today. Perhaps around five? I look forward to your call._

 _Love always,_

 _Mummy_

Draco spent the better part of the previous night drafting a letter to his mother. It was so hard to talk to her these days after what happened. He couldn't deny how disappointed he was with her response. Even though he knew she wasn't going to get better, he always held out hope that perhaps one day she would come back to her senses. That she would be his mother again and he wouldn't have to keep feeding her delusions.

Draco had actually been living not far where they were staying now when he received the call that his mother had severely damaged her mind. Narcissa had been admitted into St. Mungo's psychiatric ward months earlier after her first suicide attempt. Draco knew the first attempt wasn't to actually kill herself—she simply slit her wrists and left a dramatic note. If she really wanted to hurt herself, she could have. He made her promise to never do it again, and left her at St. Mungo's to receive treatment. She was cleared to leave St. Mungo's after a week, but never did. Draco assumed it was because she liked being at the hospital around other people rather than alone at the Manor, even if the people she was around were crazy.

Then one day he was sitting at the dining room table in the house he was renting when he received a Floo call. It was a young Healer, probably an intern, who could never have been ready for Draco's assault of questions. _Was she okay? Who was with her? Why wasn't anyone watching her? Would she survive? Could he come straight away?_

By the time he reached St. Mungo's and was allowed into her room, they had healed most of her external wounds and she was in an induced sleep. She was lying on a white hospital bed in her own private room, her long gray hair splayed around her head like a faded crown. There were cuts on her forearms, a mark on her chest, but most disturbing was the bruise on her forehead: a blueish, purplish, brownish spot the size of her fist that was much darker than a regular bruise.

"It happened during the shower," the head healer explained to him. "She snuck her wand in her robe and then sent her supervisor to get extra soap. When the supervisor was gone, she did it."

"What is it?" Draco asked, touching the bruise gently with his fingers. It was startlingly warm.

"We're not sure, but it appears as if it might be a dark curse. She doesn't remember anything, thinks it's the 1990s. We think she might have gotten the idea from…" the healer swallowed and looked at Draco uncomfortably. "From those books you brought her from the Malfoy libraries."

Draco spun on the healer with a snarl. "You think this is _my_ fault? It was _your_ job to keep her safe. It was your job to make sure she didn't try suicide again, it was your job to make sure this didn't happen!"

Narcissa wouldn't wake up for two more weeks, during which time Draco kept constant vigil by her bedside. When she did finally come to, she was forgetful and lived in some fantasy version of the past—she tried to send Draco off to Hogwarts repeatedly, begged to see Lucius, and asked where her sister Bella was.

Draco stayed with her for an extra month to consult with specialty healers and set his mother up in a nicer facility where she could spend the rest of her days. Presently she was living at the Gertrude Quarier Center for the Elderly and Mentally Afflicted. It was an upscale home specializing in those with memory or cognitive problems. Draco spent all his remaining money for Narcissa's room to be redecorated to match the master bedroom at the Manor down to the tiniest details, and most days she was compliant, believing herself to be at home. But every once in awhile she became troublesome and would fight with nurses, ask for her house elf, or demand to see her husband and son. Draco stopped visiting after a few months—it was both too confusing for her and too painful for him.

Draco hadn't talked to his mother in person for almost six months. He didn't return to Rhode Island after the incident, but he also couldn't stand to dwell by her side, so he dove into a career as an Auror and channeled his frustration into something productive. In his spare time he did research in his family's library to find the spell Narcissa had inflicted upon herself, but a small part of him didn't want to know the countercurse. Narcissa seemed happier in her own world, away from the bleak post-war life of a Malfoy. How was he supposed to take that away from her, even if it did mean he would have to suffer alone?

Ella hooted impatiently and brought Draco back to the present. He rummaged in his briefcase for a treat, which Ella swallowed happily before stroking Draco's hand gently with her head and then taking off again out the window.

His room in the cottage was dark and cold, so Draco unpacked his things to make it feel a little more like home. Because they hadn't stayed in one place for much longer than a few days, he hadn't unpacked his entire trunk, but they would be here for a whole two weeks. He reached into his briefcase and found several things he forgot he packed: his old Slytherin scarf, which had a hole in one of the silver stripes, a pile of old letters tied up with a piece of twine, a custom set of cufflinks engraved with his initials, and an enchanted necklace his mother gave him on his twelfth birthday. It was a silver pendant on a black string that Draco used to always wear beneath his shirt.

"Whenever it warms up, it means I'm holding my own necklace and thinking of you," Narcissa said as she held up a duplicate charm around her neck. At twelve, he felt as if he'd outgrown such sentimental presents, but the necklace ended up being the only reasons he survived his sixth year at Hogwarts. When it felt as though he was utterly alone in his hopeless mission, he always had his mother tied around his neck. But nowadays, in her current mental state, the charm didn't work and the pendant was always ice cold, doomed to be another stony reminder of an undesirable past.

Draco palmed the small piece of silver and sighed before throwing it back into his briefcase. He heard it clang somewhere near the bottom, but it was probably best down there, lost amongst his dirty laundry and empty firewhiskey bottles.

After he finished unpacking he knocked on Hermione's door and peered inside. Everything in the room was tucked away nice and tidily, but it appeared as though a tornado ravished just the two-foot radius around her. She was seated with her legs crossed in the middle of the room, pen firmly clamped between her teeth, hands both tangled in her bushy hair, trying to pull it into a manageable ponytail. Around her was a mess of papers, notecards, binders, and colored sticky notes.

"Granger?"

She was so lost in her thoughts that she hadn't heard him knock, and she looked quite amusing with her eyes wide in surprise. She spit out the pen, still wrangling with her hair. "Oh, Malfoy—I was actually doing some research on astrology for your project. Did you know there's an ancient ritual in which one carves the phases of the moon into a stone—"

"Wait," he interrupted. "You're doing research for me?"

"Yes," she said. "You said that would be okay. Is it okay?"

He blinked. "Oh. I thought you only meant it as a courtesy…"

"Of course not. I want to help."

Salazar help him. Why couldn't she be bloody irritating and shrill again? "That's… nice of you. I'm actually going to go lie down, I'm quite tired. I just wanted to let you know that I'll be taking a personal call this evening at the Floo."

"Sounds good," she said with a smile that was polite and cheerful and utterly impossible to hate.

* * *

He floo-called his mother at exactly 5 o'clock. He would never get used to how uncannily similar Narcissa's room at the facility was to the one at Malfoy Manor. From his position in the fireplace he could see she still had her meticulously organized bookshelves and those delicate white curtains she hung on her bedposts. Ella was sleeping in her cage by the window.

The sudden roar of the fireplace startled Narcissa, who was sitting on a rocking chair by the bed, fingering through an interior design book. She smiled and clasped her hands together upon realizing it was her son. "Draco!"

"Mother."

She was getting older, and it showed. The skin that was once smooth as porcelain was now marred by fine lines that spread like cracks in a vase, settling most heavily under her eyes. Her hair was now white as snow instead of glowing blonde, but she still kept it long and pinned up in a complicated twist.

"I completely forgot you were going to Floo. I'm so caught up in choosing a color to repaint the drawing room. I've had the house elves bringing me paint chip samples, but nothing matches the vision I have in my head—it's sort of a deep olive color, but not _quite_ olive, though, because olive is much too green for my liking…"

Draco smiled sadly as his mother rambled about shades of green. The healers kept pressing him to find the countercurse to the spell she performed on herself, but part of him wanted to respect his mother's decision. She didn't want to die—if she wanted to kill herself, she could have done it. Narcissa Malfoy didn't want to end her life, she just wanted a happier one.

"…I know you think these things are vapid, but color schemes are immensely important in determining the success of an event. And as a wife, this is my duty: to ensure the success of my husband. And to raise my son, of course." She smiled, the cracks around her lips deepening. Despite the inevitable scars of age, Narcissa still maintained an aura of power and royalty. Even as she knelt on the floor to talk to Draco, her posture could put a princess to shame.

Draco spent the next ten minutes bent over in the fireplace, legs cramping, but happy nevertheless to help his mother pick out color schemes, table centerpieces, and hors d'oeuvres for a party that didn't exist. Once she seemed content with her choices, Draco took the opportunity to seek the motherly advice he'd so lacked over the past year.

"Mother, I have a question for you."

Narcissa cocked one perfectly lined eyebrow. "Yes?"

"It's about women."

"Draco, have you met someone? How dare you not tell me sooner!"

"No, no, no," Draco said quickly. "I just… have a question."

His mother sat back on her heels and bent her head curiously. Even in her delirious state, she could still tell when her son was hiding something. "Go on."

Draco glanced over his shoulder to make sure Hermione was still upstairs. "I came to the realization recently that I may have inappropriate feelings for someone who, under normal circumstances, I would never even think twice about. In fact, she's someone you and Father would downright disapprove of. Lately… I don't feel like myself. I don't feel like I'm making decisions like I normally would."

"Perhaps that's due to the fact you haven't visited home in months," Narcissa sniffed. "I'm starting to think you don't like being around your father and I."

"Mother…" said Draco exasperatedly. "I've been busy. In fact, I've been so busy with work and I can hardly remember who I was before… all of this."

"All of what?"

In Narcissa's made-up world, the war never happened, which made talking about his life twice as difficult with her. "Nothing, Mother," he muttered.

Narcissa sighed. "I know things have never been easy for you, Draco, but I always considered it a job of mine to ensure that you grew to be a better person than your father or I ever were. And in that respect, I am proud to say I have succeeded."

Draco felt the spot where his necklace used to hang burn, and he wished he had the courage to step through the Floo and sit with his mother, but he knew it would be too much to handle. Her room was like a wax museum version of the home he used to know, and he couldn't bear to relive the past like that.

"People change, Draco," she continued. "It is not a sign of weakness to change, but a sign of resiliency. Of course, there are some things that I believe should remain traditional—and I hope to God you haven't developed feelings for one of those _feminists_ —but I have high hopes for the man you have become. I raised you in the very best way I know, and I trust you to make the best decisions for yourself."

Draco groaned inwardly. He was hoping his mother would go on a long diatribe about how if he thought she would disapprove, it was probably a bad sign, and that there were so many respectable witches available to him, and that he shouldn't go around making choices based on _feelings_. A wife, besides being a spouse, was a partner, a colleague, and an accomplice. She should be chosen wisely, with feelings being the last priority. Where did _that_ Narcissa go?

But Draco knew that as much as his mother loved to play the role of traditional pureblood wife, she couldn't squash the part of her that wanted, above all else, for her son to be happy. In fact, the only unconditional love he ever bore witness to was the love his mother had for her family, as misguided as it may have been.

He sighed. "I just wish things were simpler than they are now. Everything is so… muddled. I want to be ten years old again."

Narcissa smiled warmly. "Remember when we used to spend the entire afternoon playing hide and seek in the gardens?"

"And I would always reveal where I was by accidentally sending off sparks?" Draco chuckled. "Father used to tell me I had too much magic for my own good."

"It's true," she nodded. "You still do."

Suddenly there was a stomping noise behind him and a yell: "Malfoy-!"

Draco jerked around and hit his bead on the top of the mantel. "Ow—" Hermione was standing behind him, clutching a piece of parchment to her chest, tapping her foot nervously, and chewing her lip. There was a terrified look in her eyes and he knew immediately something was very wrong.

"Mother, I have to go," he said, turning back to the Floo.

"Is the girl there? Oh, may I meet her?" begged Narcissa.

"I really do need to go, but I'll talk to you soon, Mother. Work emergency, you understand." Draco pulled away from the Floo and the green flames disappeared. "Granger, what's wrong?"

She pursed her lips and blinked rapidly as if trying to keep herself from crying. "Harry wrote to me. There was another attack."

"Who?"

The shoe-tapping quickened. "Pansy Parkinson."

Draco's breath caught in his throat and formed a painful lump. Pansy? Last he heard about her, she was living quietly with a pureblood man somewhere in Scotland and working as a clothing designer. Why in the hell would anyone target her?

"What do we know?"

"Not much. Harry said he would be sending you a full write-up the moment he finished with the debriefing. He wasn't even supposed to write me until the department discussed the matter formally, but he thought… He knew she was your friend…" She looked at him sympathetically with those big doe eyes of hers. "Draco, they tried to save her, but the injuries were too much. Right now they're determining whether or not it was related to the other attacks."

He stiffened. Of _course_ it fucking was. He wanted to drive his fist through the wall, to scream—this was supposed to be _over_. The dying part was supposed to be over. The war was supposed to be the end of it.

"Thank you for telling me," he said stonily.

She reached out and touched his arm lightly. "Draco, I'm so sorry." He didn't look up and she took away her hand. "Would you like some time alone?"

No, in fact, time alone was not what he wanted. He wanted her to stay there and keep her hand on his arm and that was the whole problem, wasn't it? But he couldn't tell her that, so he jerked his head 'yes'.

"I'm so sorry," she repeated before grimacing and heading back up the stairs.

Draco leaned back against the mantle, his legs feeling weak. It wasn't as if he was close to Pansy. She, like many of his friends, was a companion of convenience, not useful for more than complaining about Potter and the occasional hormone-fueled snogging session. And yet, he felt strangely empty, as if part of who he was had been ripped away. It was different than his father's death, which he understood was inevitable, even justified. But Pansy was never evil.

It confirmed what he thought all along: these attacks were not aimed at the Order. Something new was creeping up from under them, and it was beginning to hit too close to home. Draco lowered himself into one of the white armchairs, his mind whirring so fast it made his head throb.

* * *

The full report arrived around nine at night, delivered by one of the Ministry's cranky tawny owls. He read through the entire thing twice in less than an hour. It was much more graphic than he expected—one page included photos of Pansy's body, bruises staining her neck, her limbs twisted like a doll's.

This attack completely changed the game: before, it was still possible that the attacks were connected to Voldemort's old followers. But killing loyal purebloods was against everything the Death Eaters stood for. No, this was a new enemy they were facing, and the rules of the game were beyond Draco's understanding.

Hermione stopped by his room before she went to bed. She was fresh out of the shower, hair wet and sticking to her neck, soaking through her thin striped. He could see her skin through the transparent fabric. She wore glasses that he'd never seen before, large with thin black rims. Maybe they were reading glasses. They made her eyes look even larger and more curious.

"I wanted to make sure you were okay," she said gently.

"I'll be okay. Go to sleep."

She chewed on her bottom lip anxiously and he wondered for a moment what it might be like to kiss her, to be the one nipping on her lip. A fire warmed his abdomen and flooded Draco with shame. His former friend was dead; he shouldn't be thinking about that sort of thing. He waited for her to leave his doorway before clenching his fist hard in an attempt to distract himself from the embarrassing pressure in his pants.

He tried to focus on the case file, but his mind, ever the enemy of his sanity, wandered to the conversation he had with his mother. He'd hoped so dearly that she would give him a good reason to not want Granger, but it was his father, not his mother, who could be counted on to always disapprove of what he did.

The more he thought about it, the more he wondered _why_ he didn't want to like Granger. No one else in his life except for his mother had ever cared about him enough to check up on him before bed when things were rough. When Lord fucking Voldemort assigned him the task of killing their headmaster, even his own friends couldn't have been bothered to ask him how he was doing.

Maybe that's why he couldn't accept it—because even if he could deal with his feelings, he knew he could never deserve her. She might be a muggle-born, she might have horrendous hair, she might be obnoxious as all hell, but he couldn't deny that she was an infinitely better person than he could ever be. At the end of the day, he still bore the mark of his mistakes on his arm and carried the name of a family that chose the wrong side. He might be able to redeem himself enough to become an Auror, but there was no amount of redemption that would make him equal to Hermione Granger, war heroine, muggle-born genius, magical justice saint.

Draco groaned and clutched his head, digging into the sides with his fingernails. He was insane to even contemplate the idea of being with her.

 _Just wait until this mission is up. Once you're away from her, you can feel normal again. You can focus on your work, your mother, and yourself again._

He took several deep breaths before diving back into the files, trying to distract himself from thinking about Hermione and the way the water soaked her shirt enough to reveal the black bra she was wearing underneath… Fuck, he was hopeless. He hated himself.

Eventually he refocused and ended up re-reading the files and taking notes until four in the morning. At a certain point the pen grew heavy in his hand and he decided it was probably time to tuck in for the night. He was finishing up the last of his notes when there was a thump from Hermione's room that shook his headboard.

" _RON_!"

Draco snapped up straight like a corpse shocked back from the dead. She was screaming, her voice sharp and deafening in the early morning silence. Heart beating fast, he grabbed his wand and charged into her room.

"Granger?"

He didn't know what he was expecting to see—maybe a werewolf kneeling over her body, an intruder holding a knife to her neck, a fire engulfing her. Instead, he saw Hermione crouched underneath a fort she had constructed on her bed. Her pillows were stacked up around her and a sheet was hanging over them, shrouding her face from view. All he could see was her torso, glowing pale white in the moonlight. She was wearing nothing but a black lace bralette that barely covered her breasts, which were heaving heavily from her screaming. She kept calling for Weasley, her voice desperate and hoarse.

"Harry," she whispered. "He left. We're going to die, Harry, we can't do this on our own…"

Draco lowered his wand slightly, not knowing if she was having a nightmare or sleepwalking or if she was in some sort of fugue state. He checked over his shoulders—had she been cursed? There was no sign of intrusion.

"Maybe if we destroy the locket, if we prove we know what we're doing, maybe he'll come back…"

He took a hesitant step forward and Hermione's face came into view: she was crying silently and her lips were swollen and red from that nervous chewing she always did when she was upset. Inappropriately, all he could think of was how strangely beautiful she looked: hair wild and curly, skin glowing, breasts framed by black lace, lips ruby red. A picture of perfect brokenness.

"Granger?" he asked again. This time she heard him, and suddenly her wand was pointed in his direction.

"Who's there?" she called. "Who is that?"

"Granger, it's me."

"Ron?" Her voice was full of fragile, childlike hope.

Draco sighed. "No. It's me. It's Malfoy."

She gasped and jumped to her feet, standing at least eight feet tall on top of the bed. " _Stupefy_!"

Just barely in time, Draco threw up a shield and watched Hermione's spell ricochet backwards, throwing her back down onto the bed. She sobbed.

"Granger, wake up!" he called from the other side, but she wasn't listening. She wasn't herself, and he was fairly sure he wasn't going to be able to wake her up.

"Ron, come back…" she cried.

Then he had an idea. He looked back at the wall that his room shared with hers and thought longingly of the soft sheets and fluffy pillows that were waiting for him. But then he looked back at her, tears falling from her eyes. Fuck her and her big, brown doe eyes. God, how he hated those eyes for making him care so damn much.

"Grang- Hermione," he called out again. "Hermione, it's me. I came back. It's Ron."

Hermione stopped crying instantly and lowered her wand. "You came back?"

Draco dissolved his shield and stepped forward. "I would never leave you, Hermione."

She smiled so innocently, her nose running and her eyes puffy. "You came back." She held her arms out expectantly and Draco hesitated.

This was a line. If he crossed it, he couldn't go back.

But then he looked again at those swollen lips bent into the warmest of smiles and his feet were moving of their own accord, reaching out to hold Hermione close. The moment her arms wrapped around him, he felt his breath hitch in his throat.

It didn't matter that she wasn't herself or that she thought he was Weasley. The moment she touched him he felt warmth crawl from his toes to his neck, and suddenly he was the most calm he'd felt in ages. Her skin was so inexplicably warm, like a cozy blanket on a winter night. She pulled him closer, pressing her breasts into his bare chest. He felt a twitch in his shorts and immediately pulled back, flushed.

"No," she whimpered. "Stay."

She was looking right at him and for a moment he thought maybe she knew it was him. But of course she didn't, because there was no way in hell Hermione Granger would be asking him to stay with her. She thought he was Weasley. She thought he was someone different, someone better, someone worth staying.

He heeded her request nonetheless. Quietly, she disassembled her fort and pulled her bed sheet back over their bodies. She pressed her back against his chest with a small, contented sigh. Her hair tickled his nose. She smelled like vanilla and old books and clean linen. Instinctively, Draco reached out and held her shoulder, pulling her in closer, breathing her in.

And it was then that Draco knew he had more than just crossed the line: he had run across it, leapt over it, he had all but erased the line completely. He was so far into the other side, there was no turning back.

Fuck her for making him care.

Fuck her for having crazy hair that smelled of vanilla. Fuck her for having skin like a fleece-lined jacket. Fuck her for having gorgeous lips that curled upward when she was teasing him.

Fuck her for making it impossible to hate her.

Fuck her for still wanting Weasley.

But most of all: Fuck her for being everything he didn't deserve.

* * *

 **A/N: … Poor Draco. At war with his own feelings. The last scene was another one of the first ones I wrote—I always imagined Hermione being doubly traumatized by Ron's leaving because she loved him. It must have been horrible to see one of the only people in the world you could rely on walk away. Maybe Draco can heal her? Or will he only damage her more? Hmm…**

 ** _Review question: Do you think Narcissa was a good mother? (This is a complicated one. I have mixed feelings on her, myself)_**

 **-potato.**


	15. Hermione's Realization

_songs:_

 _still falling for you/ellie goulding_

 _fix you/coldplay_

 **Chapter Fifteen: Hermione's Realization**

* * *

Hermione woke up drenched in sweat wearing nothing but her bra and pajama pants. Her arm was bent at a painful angle and her hand was clutching her wand, which was tangled in her hair. She groaned and sat up—it'd happened again. Another nightmare.

Her discarded shirt was on the floor along with several of her pillows. The sheets were twisted and it smelled strange, like sweat mixed with pine and musk. Had she gone outside in the middle of the night? No, she'd never done that before. She looked over to the wall she shared with Draco and hoped he hadn't heard her. He probably would never let her live it down.

Stretching her sore arm, and shaking off the strange smell, Hermione walked downstairs to get a glass of water. Draco was sitting at the dining table scribbling away at Pansy's file, his shoulders hunched and his blond hair shrouding his face from view.

"Good morning," she said in the most normal voice she could manage, trying to suss out whether or not he'd heard her nightmare.

He glanced up at her and she noticed the dark circles around his eyes, which were a much duller gray than usual. Hopefully he'd been downstairs working all night and hadn't heard her.

Draco turned exceptionally red and went back to scribbling. "Good morning," he mumbled.

He was still obviously upset over Pansy, and justly so. From what Harry wrote in the letter, it wasn't a clean crime scene. She wanted desperately to talk to him about it, but she didn't want to invade his privacy.

"Did you find anything useful in the files?" she asked, trying to be positive. "I tried to get Harry to tell me more, but he said it was 'classified information'. I swear, that boy never learns. He wouldn't have made it past our first year if I hadn't been there to double-check all his work."

Draco gave her the slightest stiff-lipped smile. "The team has a Floo call scheduled this evening to discuss everything. You're welcome to eavesdrop."

"Oh, Harry always spills his secrets eventually. It's the Granger charm, you know?" She winked, and he turned red again, averting his eyes. "Well, I have to finish drafting an agenda for my meeting tomorrow with the people who run the fire crab preservation."

"Sounds like riveting stuff," said Draco.

"It actually is. Did you know a single fire crab shell can sell for up to 500 galleons?"

"I do, actually," he said, slightly bemused. "My father owned three. One Christmas he commissioned a man to fashion one into a hair clip for my mother."

Hermione couldn't imagine having so much money that she could drop a third of her salary on a crab shell without batting an eye. After spending so much time around Draco, she often forgot his background. As much as he was a very neat, precise person, he wasn't ostentatious. In fact, she was fairly sure he'd worn the same sweater three times in the past week—a navy blue one that looked extremely cozy.

She poured herself a glass of orange juice, took a seat across from Draco, and watched him write diligently take notes. His method was so different from Harry and Ron's: Harry would hold his book or files so close to his face it practically touched his nose, and whenever he got an of idea, he would scribble it haphazardly in the margins in a script that was nearly illegible. Ron would mumble aloud whatever he was reading and he hardly ever took notes. "It's all stored up here," he'd say, tapping his head. Then during meetings he'd lean in and ask Harry for the details he couldn't recall.

Draco, on the other hand, wrote in tiny, neat lines at a steady pace, each word a deliberate thought. As he wrote she could see him mouthing the words just slightly, his brows furrowed deep in concentration. She noticed he hadn't groomed himself in a few days: his hair, which used to be cropped short and neat, was now flopping over his forehead, and there was a little scruff around his chin. She decided she liked this version of him; it was far less stiff and sharp.

"Are you feeling okay?" she found herself asking.

He looked up from his notes, shoulders still hunched. She could see pain in his eyes. "I'm fine."

"I know you probably don't want to talk about it—"

"I don't," he affirmed.

"I just… Well, if you have any theories, or things you want to talk about… I'm here." It was a strange offer to give Malfoy of all people, but he actually seemed to consider it.

"This does confirm what I thought earlier," he said quietly. "I probably sound insane, but I think these attacks are targeting the Death Eaters, not the other way around."

Hermione frowned. It made sense when she considered the attack on Pansy, but not the previous two. "Why would you think that?"

"Pansy's father was a prominent Death Eater. And imagine for a moment that what happened in Madrid wasn't aimed at you. What if… what if it was aimed at me?"

She fought the urge to shake her head dismissively at him. It seemed a little far-fetched, but he _had_ been up all night. He probably wasn't thinking clearly. "Then what about the original incident? At Ron's house?"

"I don't know," he muttered, looking back down at his notes. "I'm going over it again… the lightning bolt, the reference to Potter… I noticed something this morning, actually, and I need to report it back to the office. In the photos, next to Pansy's head, there's a small lightning bolt carved into the wood. It has to mean something. What if this is some sort of mission for vengeance? What if this is one of _your_ people?"

It was a possibility, but she would have heard if someone from the Order was going crazy enough to murder anyone with Death Eater ties. Maybe this was part of Draco's paranoia, a side effect of his inability to forgive himself, thinking that there were people out to get him.

"Our people," she corrected gently. "They're _our_ people."

She looked out the kitchen window, where she could a rare sun shining over the water in the distance. She was meeting at the fire crab reservation tomorrow, but she'd seen pictures of the habitat and wanted to spend a day there in person just for fun. She looked over again at Draco, who looked as if he needed a break from his note taking anyway.

"Why don't we go for a walk?" she suggested.

"Hm?"

"I want to go see the reservation before my meeting tomorrow, and I feel like we could use the fresh air."

He sighed. "I've got so much to do…"

"I'd really like to go outside," she said in a sweet voice that used to always convince Ron to do her bidding. It seemed to work on Draco as well, who put down his pen.

"Fine. A break could be nice."

"Brilliant," Hermione said. "I'll go change and then we'll leave."

* * *

Hermione pulled her maroon knit sweater around her tightly as they walked. The sky may have been bright and blue, but being so close to the water, there was a strong wind that tore through the sun's warmth and nipped at her nose. Even Draco was wearing a gray scarf and had his hands buried deep in his black pants.

They were walking down a paved gravel path beside the shoreline. Families riding pastel colored bikes passed them on the left, the little ones ringing their bike bells and daring each other to pedal without their hands. Several people were walking their dogs, including an elderly couple that was holding hands as they pushed a swaddled white Pomeranian in a stroller.

"That looks like my parents' dog, " Hermione said with a smile as the couple passed by. "Did you ever have a pet?"

"When I was little we had a Great Dane named Perseus. He was twice as big as I was and he had these fierce fangs, but he was actually quite gentle. After he died my mother didn't want to get another pet because of the fur."

Hermione knew it was against their agreed-upon rules to talk about Narcissa, but he technically brought his mother up first, so it wouldn't actually be a breach of contract if she asked. After running in on him talking to his mother over Floo, she was intensely curious about what the Malfoy matriarch was up to. If there was one thing Hermione didn't handle well, it was not knowing things.

"How is your mother, by the way?"

Draco's reaction was subtle: his eyes hardened, his jaw clenched just slightly, and a vein in his neck twitched. Hermione looked away.

"She's doing fine," he said tersely.

"I'm sorry for asking, I just knew you were talking to her yesterday and I—"

"You thought you'd ask me about my personal matters?"

Hermione paused. "I didn't think it would be so personal anymore."

"Anymore?" Draco asked, one sharp eyebrow raised.

"You know," she said with a shrug. "We made that agreement when we hated one another, and I thought we didn't hate each other anymore."

He turned inexplicably red again and kicked some loose gravel on the pathway. "I suppose."

"I apologize for asking, though. I know I promised I wouldn't."

It was the sincerity in her apology, she thought, that made him decide to open up. He looked at her as if it were unnatural to ask about personal matters without an unsavory ulterior motive, but answered anyway. "It's okay. She's not doing well, actually," he said quietly.

Hermione looked up at him gently. "I'm sorry."

"So am I," he said with a heavy sigh. "A year and a half after her first suicide attempt she used dark magic to try and erase her memory. It worked, but she's delusional and doesn't have much of a long-term memory. Now she lives in her own fabricated world where my father is still alive and the war never happened."

Hermione had heard a few rumors about Narcissa over the years, but none were as depressing as the truth. Out of all the Malfoys, she had the most sympathy for the matriarch, who seemed powerless against the wills of her husband. Hermione instinctively reached out and placed a comforting hand on Draco's arm. The way Draco spoke about her was heavy with shame and disappointment—but whether it was for his mother or for himself she couldn't tell.

"Do you visit her?" she asked.

"Not often. It confuses her," he said stiffly.

"You know, I performed a memory charm on my parents before the war," Hermione said quietly. "It was horrible, but I didn't want them to be targeted while I was helping Harry. I sent them away to Australia with new names and everything. When I came back, it took six months to properly fix what I'd done. It turns out I'm much better at casting memory charms than reversing them…"

"Countercharms are always more complex," said Draco. "After the incident, I did a lot of reading afterwards and found several possible curses she might have performed, but if I were to pick the wrong countercurse, it would only make things worse."

Hermione brightened. If there was one thing she was good at, it was research. "Could I have a look? I might be able to help."

They were nearing the seaside cave that led to the firecrab preservation. If a muggle climbed through, they would walk into a dead end, but a wizard or witch would find him or herself standing before a small private beach.

Draco tugged at his sleeves and sighed, not seeming the least bit interested in Hermione's assistance. "A lot of the books are written in ancient languages."

"I earned perfect scores in Runes."

"Well, maybe I don't want your help," he said, slightly annoyed. Hermione frowned, trying to read him. Ginny used to always criticize her for being horrible at picking up on others' social cues and facial expressions.

Eventually, she realized: the agony in his eyes was not from being unable to help his mother, it was from the pain of knowing he shouldn't. "You don't want to help her," she murmured.

They were now a few feet away from the cave, which was damp and dark and smelled of salt. Draco sighed again and tilted his head back, avoiding eye contact. "In my mother's mind, she is still a well-respected woman with a husband that loves her and a son who isn't a disgrace. I know this is probably something you won't be able to understand, with your need to know everything about everything, but sometimes ignorance really is bliss."

Before she could say anything in response Draco climbed up into the lip of the cave and extended a hand down to Hermione to help her up. Inside she could hear the seawater dripping off the top of the cave, echoing ominously in the darkness. She wanted to tell him he wasn't a disgrace, that his mother would be proud of the way he tried to redeem their family name, but the words were stuck in her throat.

" _Lumos_." Draco's wand lit up the cave, exposing a cold, rocky end on the other side. "Isn't it supposed to open up?"

"Try tapping it with your wand."

The moment his wand hit the cavern wall, the rocks began to dissolve away like paper held to a flame. The scene on the other side took both their breaths away: a short expanse of alabaster white sand upon which several dozen magnificent crabs with sparkling jewels were crawling. Gentle iridescent waves lapped up onto the shore, sometimes hitting the legs of the firecrabs, who hissed and turned the water to steam. Hermione couldn't help but gasp. "This is beautiful."

"It is," Draco agreed. "I've never seen a natural habitat this well preserved."

"Let's go down," she said eagerly. The mouth of the cave was a few yards above the beach, but there was a rocky staircase carved into the side. According to her notes, the beach was warded, and anyone who tried to enter with malicious intentions in their minds would suffer severe burns on both their hands. She was sure they would be fine, though: her only intention was to admire the firecrabs, and Draco's was only to make sure she didn't get herself killed.

At the bottom of the beach, just a few yards away from the creatures, Hermione understood just how intimidatingly stunning firecrabs were. They were far larger than a normal crab, probably standing two to three feet tall. Most of their height came from six pointy legs that supported a domed shell encrusted with glittering jewels. Some were fitted with rubies, other garnets or emeralds, and Hermione thought she could see a small diamond-laden one hiding in the corner. Their faces were the strangest part: they had wide black eyes that gave them the illusion of always being surprised, which looked comical juxtaposed against their regal shells.

Hermione took a few hesitant steps forward, wanting to see if they were friendly or not.

"Granger, I don't think that's a good idea," Draco warned. "They're ranked Triple-X by the Ministry for a reason."

"Hagrid always told us the Ministry's labels were rubbish and just another way to demonize other species," said Hermione haughtily. She was approaching what appeared to be a baby firecrab. It wasn't more than six inches long and its eyes were especially wide and innocent-looking. Slowly, she extended her hand to let it smell her like a dog and she heard Draco's breath hitch behind her.

The small crab bent its head towards her slowly and looked her up and down as if appraising her. A few other crabs had gathered behind, waiting for the baby crab's mark of approval, and Hermione was beginning to regret her decision. Was this what Draco meant by Gryffindor stupidity?

Suddenly the baby crab threw its head back and chattered loudly, causing Hermione to jump in fear. The rest of the crabs froze, looked at Hermione, and then chattered as well.

"Is this a good thing?" Draco asked worriedly.

"I think so. According to the books I read, an aggressive chatter means angry, and a cheerful chatter means welcome."

"Well, which one was that?"

Hermione grimaced. "I'm not sure."

With slow deliberation, the crabs began to part like the red sea, creating a pathway to the ocean for Hermione. Then the smallest one bowed, chattered again, and ran down the cleared pathway into the ocean.

Hermione turned back to Draco questioningly. He shrugged. "That seems like a good sign."

Hesitantly, Hermione followed the small crab into the water, where it made a show of propelling itself along the water like a skipping rock using its fire. She laughed and grabbed Draco's hand to pull him towards the water, pointing at the little creature as it bounced and hopped along the waves. "Do you know what this reminds me of?"

"Hm?" His hand was tense in hers.

"That time in fourth year when Professor Moody turned you into a ferret and bounced you up and down in the air." She laughed again, remembering how deliriously happy it felt whenever Malfoy was punished at Hogwarts. Draco, however, wasn't amused, and he jerked his arm away. "Oh, come on, don't be sensitive," she said.

"I had bruises for a week."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Forgive me if I'm not moved."

Most of the crabs had returned to their regular activities, but a few were fascinated by their tall visitors and crowded inquisitively around Hermione and Draco's feet. One latched onto Draco's shoelace and pulled curiously, accidentally biting part of it off.

"Hey, you little bugger—" Draco shook his shoe and accidentally kicked the crab. With a hiss, the garnet-adorned animal hissed and a flame erupted from its backside. Hermione took a step backward.

"It's okay…" she said in a soothing voice. "He's just an idiot, he didn't mean to hurt you."

"It bit my shoelace off!"

" _Which you can easily fix_ ," she seethed, still trying to pacify the angry crab.

"They're very temperamental creatures, aren't they?"

"I'm sure you can relate."

Draco rolled his eyes and without looking, lifted his foot to take a step backwards. Hermione yelled but before she could stop him, he stepped straight onto the leg of one of the fire crabs.

There was a loud, aggressive chatter and the crab, this one bearing gold-yellow jewels, began spitting large bursts of fire. "Well," said Draco weakly. "I suppose that's what the angry chatter sounds like."

As if responding to a war cry, all the nearby crabs turned to Draco and began chattering as well. The sound was deafening, like millions of rattlesnakes shaking in unison. Hermione looked all around her—on one side angry fire-bearing crabs trapped them, and on the other side they only had an ocean. You couldn't Apparate out of the enclosure and she certainly didn't bring a broom with her.

"We should get out of here," she whispered frantically to Draco. The crabs were beginning to creep in on them, forcing them backwards into the water.

"Yes, I realize that, thank you," he hissed back.

"You caused this mess, you moron. Fix it!"

Draco's brows furrowed as he thought frantically of a solution. He looked down at their feet and pointed at a long piece of seaweed at Hermione's feet. "Give that to me."

He took his wand to the slimy plant, and in a matter of seconds transfigured it into a broomstick. Hermione shook her head wildly. "There is no way I am getting on a broomstick you made out of _seaweed_."

"Would you rather stay here, then?"

She took one look at the crabs, which were now blasting fire so ferociously she could feel the heat on her face, and jumped so quickly onto the broom she bruised her inner thigh. Draco climbed on behind her, wrapped one arm tightly around her abdomen, and ricocheted them into the air.

Hermione gasped as the air was knocked clean out of her lungs. She hated the sensation of flying, which felt much like riding a rollercoaster without a seatbelt or any guarantee of safety. She closed her eyes as tight as she could, held her breath, and gripped the broomstick like her life depended on it. After a few seconds they leveled off somewhere high above the ocean, and she felt Draco's light chuckle warm on her ear.

"You can relax, Granger," he murmured amusedly in her ear, causing goosebumps to scatter their way down her shoulder. She suddenly became acutely aware of his arm around her stomach, which was firm and…. safe. He wasn't going to let her fall.

Slowly she released her death grip on the broomstick and opened one eye. They were high, much too high—the crabs on the beach below looked like dots on a map. She sucked in sharply and pressed herself back against Malfoy's torso, desperate to feel something stable and concrete. She could feel his chest shake as he chuckled again. "So we found something the almighty Hermione Granger isn't good at?"

"I don't like heights," she said weakly.

"And I don't like strange Muggle machines, but you didn't seem to care too much about that when you nearly drove us into a pond."

"Driving a golf cart doesn't carry with it the threat of death."

"Oh, don't be dramatic," he whispered. His mouth was much too close to her ear, she decided. She swore she could feel every breath he took on her neck.

They swept through the air along with the breeze, gentle and certain. The last time Hermione flew was years ago with Ron, after Harry convinced her once on a drunken New Year's Eve to get on a broom with her very tipsy boyfriend. Five minutes later she was crumpled in a ball on the grass, nursing a broken arm and a bloody nose, and she swore she would never fly again.

But Malfoy seemed assured in his talent and every turn or dip he made was with graceful deliberation. He moved the broom exceptionally well considering he only had one arm to steer with, and the steely grip he had on her with his other arm never wavered. Eventually she gathered enough courage to keep her eyes open and actually enjoy the ride. Below them the ocean sparkled like a sheet of sapphire jewels dotted with the occasional pelican lazily riding the waves.

"Where are we going?" she asked.

"Home."

She frowned, tracking the shoreline as they glided. "The cottage is the other way."

"Is it?" he said, an amused lilt in his voice. "Oops."

"Malfoy!" she shrieked as he took them down into a sharp nosedive towards the water. Cold misty air stung her face as she braced herself to hit the ocean, but right before they were poised to crash into the salty waves, he jerked them up to fly parallel to the ocean, the tips of their feet skimming the surface. She opened her mouth to scream bloody murder at him but instead bubbles of laughter rose up from her belly and escaped into the air, ringing like music in Draco's ears as he piloted them through the sky.

"I had no idea you could fly this well!" she yelled, hoping he could hear her with the wind whipping around them.

He grumbled. "Potter made sure no one noticed my talent."

"Don't be jealous," she teased.

He zipped up and guided them in several loops through the air, crinkling his nose as Hermione's wild mane poked his eyes and stuck to his mouth. She stopped worrying about whether or not he was going to drop her or what trick he was going to pull next, and let herself enjoy the wild abandonment of flight. After what could have been minutes or hours, she couldn't tell, he slowed down and cruised lightly a few yards over the ocean.

"Hang on," he whispered, his lips accidentally grazing her ear, making her shiver. He grabbed her arm and then they were being sucked away and deposited on the front steps of the cottage. Hermione landed facing him, her body just inches from his, and grabbed onto his upper arms, still wavering slightly from the weightless sensation of flying. She took a deep breath, trying to find her balance.

As she clutched to him, a familiar scent flooded her nose: pine needles, fresh rain, clean laundry… She furrowed her brow. From where did she know that smell? She looked up at Draco, trying to place the scent, but his eyes, deep and dark and focused all on her, erased her train of thought. All thoughts left her mind as he reached up slowly and grasped one of her wild curls, which were pointed every which way after being tossed around in the wind. Gently, he tucked it behind her ear, his fingers grazing the length of her jaw as he brought his hand back. She froze. His eyebrows were cocked curiously as if he was deciphering a complicated puzzle, and his lips were parted slightly.

Was he…?

Then there was another waft of pine and rain and suddenly she remembered waking up in the morning with her wand in her hand and she jumped backward, pushing Draco in the opposite direction, the moment shattered.

"You!" she said hoarsely, her hand pointed accusingly. "Were you in my room last night?"

Draco blinked several times. He ran a hand through his hair as he tried to collect himself. "What…?"

"Answer the question," she demanded. She pulled her wand from her pocket and waved it at him dangerously.

"Whoa, whoa," Draco said as if calming a wild horse. She stared him down and after a moment he looked down at his feet in defeat. "You were screaming. I heard you yelling Weasley's name and I came into your room to make sure you were okay."

Hermione breathed heavily, not sure if she was more embarrassed that he'd seen her in her most vulnerable state, or more angry that he violated her privacy. "What did you do to me?" she asked sternly.

"Fuck, Granger, I promise you I didn't do anything. I talked you down and made sure you fell back asleep and then I left."

Hermione took a step forward and pressed the tip of her wand into his chest. She looked firmly into his pale gray eyes. "You swear that's all you did?"

"Yes." Finding no sign of dishonesty in his eyes, she lowered her wand and clenched her jaw. "Good." She spun on her heel and went back inside the cottage.

Draco followed her quickly. "Wait, I want to talk about this. I didn't want to bring it up if you didn't remember, but… What _happened_ to you? Was it a nightmare?"

Her chest burned at the thought of Malfoy seeing her beg for Ron like a pathetic damsel. She leaned over the kitchen counter with her back facing him. "It's none of your business."

There was silence, and then she felt his hand on her back. She clenched her jaw tighter—the last thing she wanted was his pity.

"I used to have them, too," he said so quietly he could hardly hear.

She turned her head just slightly and peered at him from the corner of her eye. He looked just as pained as she did to admit it. "What?"

"They weren't the same as yours, but it was similar. Sometimes when I woke up my body was frozen and I felt like… like he was there in the room with me. But I couldn't move. I couldn't scream. I just shook and shook until I could control my body again."

"Sleep paralysis. It often occurs in conjunction with hallucinations," Hermione said, unable to stop herself from diagnosing him. She heard him chuckle.

"Yes, that's it."

She took a deep breath and then turned around slowly to face him. "I've had them since the war. I saw a healer for awhile, and now they only happen a few times a month."

His eyes were soft on hers. "And you don't remember anything when you wake up?"

"No. I used to wake up and my room would be absolutely destroyed. Sometimes I'd have bruises, or cuts…" She absentmindedly traced one of the scars on her forearm near where Bellatrix had carved ' _Mudblood'_ into her skin. During some of her darkest nights she would dig her nails into the scar and tear ribbons of flesh off. Her therapist told her it was likely a subconscious effort to remove the reminder of what had happened at Malfoy Manor, but Bellatrix had used a cursed knife and the disgusting word couldn't be removed.

"We all suffered like that," she said quietly. "All of us, Harry and Ron and Neville and Luna and… everyone. But I don't talk about it, because I'm supposed to be the strong one. I'm supposed to have all the answers."

He nodded gently, listening, drawing honesty from her lips.

"I'm sorry you had to see me like that," she said softly. "I hate that it happens, that there's a part of me that still can't let the past go."

Draco watched her with a tight-lipped grimace, and for the first time she saw empathy in his normally cold eyes. This—the pain, the inability to leave the past in the past— _this_ was something he could understand.

"There's no weakness in being broken. You taught me that," he said quietly. Sometimes she felt like he had a way of reading the parts of her mind that were normally unreachable by one anyone else—like he had a special talent of disassembling the walls she built up around her most vulnerable thoughts. "In fact, Granger, I think there's light to be found in the parts of us that have been shattered most."

She blinked at him once, twice, and suddenly all she wanted was for him to wrap his arms around her again and hold her tight like he did on the broomstick until she was numb and nothing could hurt her anymore.

* * *

That night Hermione watched in a chair out of view as Draco met with his Auror supervisor, Regina, through the Floo. He was fiercely intimidating as he read his bookmarked notes with a steady voice full of conviction and passion. She could tell he cared: it was written in the crease between his brows and in the pink of his cheeks. His voice quavered when he said Pansy's name; this loss hit him harder than he could admit. He mentioned his theory that the attacks could actually be targeted at former Death Eaters, but Regina didn't seem to think it was a realistic conjecture.

After Draco finished reading his notes, Regina brought the subject back to Hermione. "We feel as if there isn't a reason to suspect Miss Granger is in any immediate danger, especially considering the subject of the recent attack. That being said, Mr. Potter and Mr. Weasley are still concerned and we consider her protection a most important consideration. Do you have any reason to believe Miss Granger is at risk? Have you witnessed any strange activity, anything suspicious?"

Draco looked over at Hermione briefly, who was still sitting out of view in the corner. There was something fiercely possessive in his eyes and she felt her breath hitch in her throat. She could still feel the ghost of his arm around her waist, the feel of his breath on her ear, and the scent of pine and rain in her nose. She thought of what he told her earlier: _he had them, too._ A part of him was also stuck in the past. He was broken, and he understood the parts of her that were broken, too.

"No," he said firmly to Regina. "But I can assure you that keeping Hermione Granger safe is my _utmost_ priority."

His words lit a fire in her belly that chased its way up to her ears and back down to the tips of her toes. Suddenly there was a strange new presence in the room that she couldn't ignore. It was palpable, warm, and simultaneously the most terrifying and comforting sensation she'd ever experienced. She stared at Draco, at his gray eyes she could never quite read, at his sharp mouth always ready to spar with hers, at his arms, which for some reason made her feel safe. It hit her with the same ferocity as flames from a firecrab, and just like the crab's wrath, she knew it would be near impossible to escape.

She had feelings for Draco Malfoy.

* * *

 **A/N: Caaaan you feeeeel the loooove tooonight? (; The tension builds… When will it finally snap?**

 **Your responses to last chapter's review question were so insightful and interesting! Thank you all so much for your support and kind words. I love talking to y'all about character development. To me, the best part of a book is the characters. You can have a boring plot, but if your characters are good, I love it.**

 ** _Review question: I really wanted to incorporate a magical creature in this fic after seeing Fantastic Beasts, so that's where the firecrabs came from. If you could own any mythical creature from the Harry Potter universe, which one would it be?_**


	16. Just Like His Own

_a/n: my apologies for the short chapter. it's got some crucial character development that needs to happen before the next chapter (!)_

 _songs: slow dancing in a burning room/john mayer_

 **Chapter Sixteen: Just Like His Own**

* * *

Draco grew up with a very specific idea of what love meant. Even as a small child, he could see how much his parents loved each another and how much they unconditionally adored him. But as he grew older, his father started spending days away from home and his mother took up a tradition of crying herself to sleep. He thought this is what love was: it was doing whatever it took to protect yourself and your family. When he inquired about why scary looking men and women were coming to visit, Narcissa told him that's what his father had to do to protect them. That Lucius loved them enough to put himself in danger to protect them.

But with age comes nuance and a deeper understanding for situations far too complicated for a ten-year-old to understand, and Draco learned that while his parents did love him, their love was selfish. Lucius was too selfish to realize his idea of self-preservation meant putting his wife and son's lives at risk. Narcissa did what she did to protect him, but she couldn't handle the guilt and erased her memory to avoid the pain, leaving her son to bear the burden of their family's mistakes on his own. Real love, as Draco came to understand it, was full of pain and self-sacrifice. It meant breaking yourself over and over, putting someone else before you at every opportunity. Any way he looked at it, Draco learned love meant irrationality and suffering, which was something he'd had enough of in his short life. So he vowed to avoid it.

This vow had been easily enough to keep at first. Draco assumed it was because he was rational enough to avoid situations that would put him at risk of feeling love, but now everything was starting to change. This woman… this bushy-haired, irritating, shrill woman was challenging everything he thought he knew about himself. And after yesterday, after he nearly kissed her on the front porch… now she must know how he felt, and he knew that she knew, and it was all falling to shit and he felt like a raging _lunatic_.

Early the next morning, Draco leaned back against the wall of the shower and groaned. The water peppered down on his chest as he tried to think of absolutely anything but Hermione fucking Granger. It was the flying that did it, how he held her so tight and tucked her hair behind her ear, not to mention that stupid comment he made when she brought up her nightmares. He made it obvious. She had to know he felt more than friendship towards her.

He couldn't remember another instance in his life where he felt so utterly powerless, so out of his element, as he felt around her. She turned everything he thought he knew about himself on its head, leaving him spinning and wondering who in the hell he was. He really should've just Apparated them straight home instead of taking her on some stupid joyride. He wasn't planning on doing broom tricks, either, but there was that way she laughed uninhibitedly when he flew them up and down. There was also the way she leaned back into him, her bum against his groin…

Blood rushed south as Draco remembered the way she looked when she was free: eyes wide, cheeks flushed, mouth slightly parted in shock and glee. He looked down between his legs where a particular part of him was demanding attention and he groaned again. When was the last time he'd taken care of himself?

He gripped himself hesitantly, but couldn't bring himself to do it. He was turned on at the thought of _Granger_ \- obnoxious, bushy-haired, bucktoothed, frumpy sweater-wearing, shrill-voiced Granger.

But also grown-up, well poised, quick-witted, charmingly obnoxious, rather pretty, good-natured, forgiving Granger.

Draco pounded an angry fist on the side of the wall, which only made his hand hurt and didn't relieve his stress at all. He needed a distraction, and quickly, or that woman was going to be the end of his sanity.

* * *

Downstairs, Hermione was making breakfast in her robe and doing everything in her power to avoid looking at Draco. Potato hash crinkled softly on the stove as both parties stood awkwardly in the kitchen, Hermione still in her robe, Draco in fresh clothes with wet hair and a tight grimace.

He had thought long and hard about the issue of his attraction to Hermione and had come to a logical conclusion: in all likelihood he was only feeling this way because of their constant proximity to one another. After all, it was nearly impossible to spend all your time with one woman and not develop feelings, whether romantic or physical, towards them. He knew the insanity going on in his head would calm down once he was back to his normal, Granger-less life. In the meantime, perhaps he could train himself to hate her again.

Draco dug his hands into his pockets and grit his teeth. It was quite nice to be on friendly terms with Granger and he wasn't looking forward to returning to their constant spiteful bickering, but their friendliness was leading him to imagine things that could never—and _should_ never—happen. Yes, he decided, it was necessary to break down the bond they'd built. It shouldn't be that hard—she did, after all, spend six years despising the ground he walked on. Returning to that place couldn't be that much of a challenge. Still, a heavy pit formed in his stomach when he tried to scowl at Hermione as she stirred

"What's wrong?" she asked, genuinely concerned that he was angry with her.

He took a deep breath and tried his best to channel the person he was before she went and messed with his head. "Nothing, you just look very… _tired_ this morning."

She rolled her eyes, not at all bothered by his comment. "Don't be an arsehole."

"It's not being an arsehole if it's the truth," he said with a shrug.

"You don't look so great, yourself. When was the last time you shaved? You look homeless." He felt a fire light in his belly at her playful insult. Fuck, it wasn't working. It was demented, how much he loved arguing with her.

"I thought the scruff made me look rugged. Perhaps you're just not accustomed to what a real man looks like, what with spending all your time with Potter and Weasley."

She turned off the burner and spooned portions of her hash onto two plates: one of her and one for him. When did she start cooking for him? "Speaking of Harry and Ron, I invited them over tonight."

Right, she started cooking for him when she started wanting a favor. He groaned. "I don't remember agreeing to that."

"No, but I don't need your consent," she said primly. "This morning we're going back to the firecrab preservation first to meet with the Rhode Island diversity director, Genevieve, who you will _not_ tell about our little incident yesterday, and then this evening Harry, Ron, and Ginny are coming over."

Well, at least the she-Weasley was coming. She, like Hermione, had an amusing wit that made the other two gits more tolerable. Still, he didn't want to spend the whole night holed up in his room.

"I had a thought, though," said Hermione, as if she could read his mind. "I'd like for you to spend the evening with us."

Draco froze with his fork mid-air. "Come again?"

"Well, I thought… You and I have been on good terms, and it seems silly for you to be waiting upstairs until they leave."

"I'm flattered by the offer, Granger, but I have better things to do than spend my evening in the company of two Weasleys and a Potter. Or is it two Potters and a Weasley now? Merlin, poor girl, she really can't win…"

Hermione looked at him coolly over her glass of orange juice and cocked a challenging eyebrow. "What, are you afraid you can't handle a night with us?"

"What do you mean?"

"Let's make a bet. If you make it the whole night with my friends without instigating a fight, then… I'll owe you a favor."

An inappropriate vision of Granger kneeling in front of him wearing nothing but her knickers flashed in his mind. He mentally slapped himself. Bugger all, maybe a night with Potter and Weasley would do him good—it might remind him of the reason he hated Granger to begin with. "Fine," he agreed. "You're on."

* * *

The trip back to the firecrab preservation was entertaining if nothing else. Draco discovered just what a horrible actress Hermione was—she was far too inquisitive, acting as if she'd never seen a beach or the blasted creatures before in her life. However, her negotiations with Genevieve were successful: she managed to secure a verbal agreement for the Ministry of Magic to adopt six firecrabs to breed with the long-term goal of creating an artificial habitat abroad for them to repopulate within. The deal would be a lucrative one too, as firecrabs shed their shells every three months as they matured, leaving behind small precious stones embedded in their discarded shells.

"What's the plan when someone inevitably breaks into the habitat and steals some of the firecrabs to breed?" Draco asked as they walked home.

"Won't happen. The plan is to open the preservation quietly—we'll publicize it so as not to keep the truth from the public, but we'll release the story on a busy news day so people don't notice. Additionally, I plan to consult with Genevieve about different wards to implement. Obviously no wards are perfect, but mine are close to it."

He smirked. "A little cocky, aren't we?"

Hermione smiled devilishly. "Cocky implies an exaggeration. I'm not exaggerating."

"And what happens if the story does get out and the media spins it as a money grab on the Ministry's part?"

"Then we say it was a conservation effort—which it _is_ —and I'll arrange a photo-op with Harry holding one of the blasted creatures. After that, no one will dare argue against the idea." She smiled smugly.

"Does Potter ever tire of his friends using his name to their advantage?" he asked.

"Once I caught him referring to himself as 'the Chosen One' to get a discount on Ginny's anniversary present and now he has no grounds to judge the rest of us."

Draco couldn't help but chuckle. So even Saint Potter sometimes suffered from an over-inflated ego.

Once back at the cottage Hermione got to work cleaning vigorously, as if she were expecting important foreign diplomats and not her three closest friends. He watched in vague amusement as she swept the floors, scrubbed the counters, and plumped the throw pillows until they were perfect fluffy squares. She was nothing if not a perfectionist. After cleaning she started preparing dinner while Draco sat on the kitchen counter, made small talk, and stole bits of the food when she wasn't looking.

"What's your favorite book?" he asked as he swiped a carrot slice.

"Don't have one," she answered. "You?"

" _Hogwarts, a History_."

She stopped slicing vegetables and practically beamed at him. "Really?"

He smirked. "Of course not. I'm fairly sure you're the only individual in the history of Hogwarts to ever enjoy that text."

She harrumphed and went back to chopping, then looked suspiciously over her shoulder at him again. "How did you know I like that book?"

"You always had it with you," he admitted truthfully. He remembered having double potions with Gryffindor house and laughing with Pansy and Theo when Granger would stumble into class, her posture permanently lopsided from lugging around her book bag. Whenever she finished her potion earlier than the rest of the class—which was almost always—she would pull out one of her overwhelmingly thick books and read. One of her favorites was _Hogwarts, a History_.

Why did he remember that?

"It was the first wizarding book I ever read," Hermione murmured. "Dumbledore came to my house when I was eleven, told my parents I was a witch, and left me with my acceptance letter and a copy of Hogwarts, a History. It was my introduction to our world. I don't particularly love the content, but it holds special meaning to me." She eyed him curiously. "Do you have any books like that?"

He swiped another carrot spear and leaned against the wall. The library at Malfoy Manor was extensive, and during the summers he spent most of his time with his nose in a book. It was better than sitting in on Lucius's meetings with the Death Eaters. He thought back to before Hogwarts, when his mother would pull him into her lap in front of the fireplace and read out loud to him. They continued this tradition up to an embarrassing age—he was probably eight or nine when Narcissa finally complained he was getting too heavy for her lap.

" _Babbity Rabbity and her Cackling Stump_ ," he said. "It was my favorite as a child."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Of course it was."

"What's that supposed to mean?" he said more defensively than he intended.

"That story is dripping with anti-Muggle rhetoric. I shouldn't be surprised it's your favorite."

Draco stiffened. "You are fully aware I don't think that way anymore and it would be much appreciated if you would stop acting as if I do."

She softened. "You're right. Just… sometimes it's hard to erase the scars."

Her words dug into his chest like a knife and he dug his fingernails into the palm of his hands, unconsciously punishing himself. He leaned back again and noticed for the third time that day how tired she looked. "Did you sleep okay last night?"

She averted her eyes defensively. "Yes."

"You're not still having nightmares, right?"

"No," she sighed. "My mind is plagued by other issues, actually. But you don't need to pretend like you care about my nightmares."

He made a small affronted noise. "I have a heart, Granger."

"Oh really?" she said dryly, waggling an eyebrow. "I always thought it was part of your aesthetic to pretend you didn't."

"Well I _do_ care," he said. "I can't have you getting sleep-deprived. Makes you twice as bitchy."

"Well, better sleep deprivation than drug addiction or alcoholism."

He paused, his hand hovering over the stack of vegetables she'd sliced. "Who's addicted to drugs?"

She shrugged. "Lots of us ended up like that."

"Us?"

"The Order, our allies, their families. St. Mungo's has made a fortune off rehabilitation programs since the war," she said. "I knew it was bad when Neville's students found him passed out on his desk."

"Longbottom?" He gaped. "You can't be serious."

"Why would I lie about that?" she said solemnly. "McGonagall understood, of course. She even gave me a soundproofed room at Hogwarts so no one would hear my screams at night."

He let out a breath and felt his chest deflate like a balloon. They'd all done such a good job faking it. He would never have guessed what was happening behind closed doors.

"Harry has psychotic episodes sometimes, and Ron has rage fits. Once I bought him some plates to break and he just smashed them in our kitchen, one by one, until his hands were bleeding and there was nothing but shards left. And Percy, Ron's brother… he's in an institution right now. Went crazy with guilt after watching Fred die."

"Why are you telling me all of this?"

She put down her knife and tilted her head to the side, looking up at him. "I don't know, we're just having a conversation. I wanted to share. It makes it better sometimes, when you're not the only one bearing the burden."

It was alarming, how easily she could dismantle his walls without his even realizing, how she could burrow herself into the most vulnerable parts of him and open them up. She exposed herself, and in doing that she exposed him as well, and yet… he never felt weakened by it.

"It happened to us too," he admitted. "Goyle lost it at Crabbe's funeral. He wasn't the same after that. Theodore Nott lost both his parents and tried to kill himself. He didn't jump from high enough, though, and all he managed to do was break his legs. Pansy was hysterical for awhile after her father was jailed until… Until she moved abroad. And now…"

"I'm sorry," she whispered to him. He noticed how close she was, how all it would take was a quick swoop down to eliminate the space between them.

"About what?"

"That they suffered. That you suffered."

He scoffed lightly. "We did it to ourselves."

She opened her mouth, then closed it, then sighed, regarding him carefully. "Can I ask a sensitive question?"

He shrugged noncommittally.

She tilted her head, staring up at him curiously. "When did you stop believing you were superior to the rest of us? To me?"

His heart sank, and suddenly she seemed far away again. He wished he could tell her it was sooner than it really was, or that he never really believed it at all, that he was just a silly kid repeating what his parents told him. Truthfully, though, if you're told something enough times you begin to take it as truth. But there was a specific moment, a distinct point in his timeline when his illusion of superiority was shattered, and it was because of her.

"It was when… when my aunt had you," he said quietly. She froze mid-slice through a cucumber. "All of a sudden, it was real. We weren't in Potions class and you weren't an annoying schoolmate anymore—we were in my _home_ , and you were a… a young woman, bloody and bruised and broken. And then she…" He took a deep breath, shuddering as he exhaled, wondering if he should continue but somehow unable to stop himself. "She cut your arm and your neck and your blood dripped onto the tile of the drawing room, the same drawing room I used to study in when I was a child. And it was so _red_ , your blood. It pooled at your feet and it looked just like…" He stopped.

"Like your own," she finished.

He bit his upper lip and nodded his head. "Just like my own."

Hermione stared at him with blank eyes before turning away to resume slicing the cucumber. "Go get ready," she said quietly. "They'll be arriving soon."

Draco hesitated but her disposition suggested he not continue the conversation. As he headed up the stairs he came to a conclusion far more accurate that the one he'd arrived at that morning. He was not angry at his feelings for Hermione Granger because of their tricky history, or because she was an obnoxious know-it-all, or because she constantly infuriated him. He was angry at his feelings because he knew he could never have her—he could never have a woman he'd hurt so much. He could never have a woman who had the grace to forgive him and even regard him as a friend. Hermione Granger was everything he wished he deserved, a constant reminder of what he could've had if he'd been a better man.

* * *

 **A/N: Not to tease y'all, but shit's going to go downnnn next chapter! Who's excited? I'm excited! All the tension is about to unravel. It'll make up for how short this chapter was, I promise.**

 ** _Review question: Would you be able to forgive someone who stood by and watched your blood spill on the floor in front of them without helping you? Personally, I'm not sure I could. But everyone is different, and the specific circumstances are very important to consider..._**


	17. Breaking the Charade, Part I

_songs: make you feel my love/adele_

 **Chapter Seventeen: Breaking the Charade, Part I**

* * *

There were few things in the world that could be a worse punishment for Draco Malfoy than spending an evening with Harry Potter, Ron Weasley, and Ginny Weasley-Dash-Potter. Circe, he felt bad for her—she had to bear both their names.

They arrived around six in a flurry of Floo powder, high-pitched squeals, and friendly thumps in the back. It was all very uncomfortable for Draco, whose reunions with his Hogwarts-era friends usually consisted of a polite smile, a handshake, and a snide remark, followed by a conversation in which both parties tried their best to passive-aggressively one-up each other.

He waited a few feet away for Hermione to finish hugging her friends so enthusiastically he'd have thought they'd just come back from war. To his surprise, they were overwhelmingly polite and welcoming to him—Granger must have warned them to be nice. Even Weasley, who usually had a hard time hiding a scowl around him, was civil. This was slightly disappointing for Draco, who had compiled a mental list of insults to throw at Weasley, some of which he thought were very clever.

Everything was actually going decently well until Hermione left him alone in the drawing room with the three of them. "I'm going to go finish dinner. I'll be back in five minutes." She gave Draco a pointed 'behave yourself' look before disappearing around the corner, leaving him to fend for himself.

"So, er, Malfoy," Ginny said awkwardly, trying her best to seem natural but coming across much too chipper and fake. "How has Hermione been treating you? She can be quite a handful."

"I would assume your primary concern would be how _I'm_ treating _her_." He meant the comment facetiously, but Ginny took it the exact opposite way.

"Oh, I wasn't suggesting—I don't think—We all know you've changed—"

He hated this, having to overcome the barrier of his past before having a halfway normal conversation. He sighed and tried for a smile, which he was sure came across as more of a grimace. "It's okay, I know. Grang—Hermione—" he corrected, her given name tasting strange on his tongue, "—has been a fine companion."

The redhead leaned back into Potter's arm, which was tucked lazily around her shoulder. Her belly was hidden under an oversized mustard-yellow sweater. "How is, erm, the…" Draco motioned awkwardly at her stomach. "Baby?"

Ginny smiled warmly and looked over at her husband, encouraging him to join the conversation. Harry met Draco's eyes uncomfortably. "The baby is well."

The room fell silent again, all four people trying their best to look anywhere but at each other. Draco toed the fraying edge of the throw rug and willed himself to be anywhere but there… maybe if he thought hard enough he might accidentally Apparate away. Even splinching would be better than this.

Suddenly, Ron clapped his hands together and sighed. "This is ridiculous. Look, Malfoy, nothing is going to erase the fact that you were a little shit, you made our lives hell, and your family actively tried to kill good people. I know Harry and I haven't made the effort to talk to you at work, but Hermione has said some decent things about you, and she doesn't trust people easily. For some reason, she seems to like you and wants us all to be chummy. So, I'm Ron Weasley. Nice to re-meet you."

He extended a freckled hand and waited for Draco to accept. Draco did so hesitantly, his eyebrows knit. _Did he say Granger liked him?_

Harry chuckled. "Well, that's one way to do it."

"In the spirit of honesty, I should tell you I wanted to slap you once in the face first—you know, third-year-Hermione style, just for all the shit you put us through—and then we'd get to know each other," Ron said. "But Hermione vetoed the slap thing. Said it's not as satisfying as you'd think."

Draco wasn't listening to him, his mind still on Hermione. What had she said to them? Did she want her friends to like him because they were work colleagues, or because they were friends, or because…

Hermione came back into the room, breaking him away from his thoughts. She'd taken some extra time to look nice for her friends; her hair was pulled back into a loose braid, she had on a touch of makeup, and she was wearing a sweater with a wide neckline that showed off her freckle-dotted shoulders. She was, he thought, beautiful.

"Dinner's ready!" she sang. "I hope you lot like tofu, I'm trying out some new healthy recipes—"

"Ugh, I was hoping for something substantial," Weasley groaned. They filed into the kitchen, leaving Hermione waiting for Draco. She grinned and winked at him.

"Come on, now."

* * *

"Y'know, Malfoy, I really do want to apologize that I didn't take the opportunity to get to know you again when you came to the Auror department." Harry was chewing his tofu thoughtfully, regarding Draco almost pleasantly.

Draco held back a sneer, unable to believe that Potter was such a fucking saint that _he_ was apologizing for not wanting to get to know his childhood bully better. It occurred to him that Potter and Granger had this in common—their saintlike ability to forgive and forget. He wondered why _they_ never became a thing, and immediately felt a sting of jealousy at the mere thought of Hermione getting anywhere near the raven-haired man.

Casually, Draco took a sip of the white wine Hermione served with dinner. "Really, Potter, it should be me who is apologizing. I'm not the most approachable person." From the corner of his eye he saw Hermione beaming at him and felt encouraged.

"You probably fit right in then," Ginny said. "Half the wizards and witches in that department haven't smiled in so long I think their mouths are permanently frozen in a scowl."

"Well, some of them have seen horrible things," Hermione said reasonably. "One can't expect them to be dancing around whistling tunes all day."

Ginny rolled her eyes. "Harry's faced Lord-fucking-Voldemort and I still can't get him to stop humming 'Old MacDonald' when he makes breakfast in the morning."

Draco sniggered with the group at the thought of Harry in a pair of slippers, flipping pancakes and humming children's songs. He relaxed a little, his shoulders loosening.

"Honest, it's a good thing you lot have Ron for comedic relief at the office," said Hermione, looking at Weasley with a knowing sparkle in her eye that made Draco sick to his stomach. "When you're not laughing with him, you're likely laughing _at_ him."

Ron stuck his tongue out at her as the rest of them laughed knowingly, unintentionally isolating Draco, who once again was reminded of how he didn't belong at this table with them.

After a few more digs at Ron, the conversation turned to Quidditch and Ginny's successful career with the Harpies. Draco was more than comfortable in this arena and was even able to impress the female Weasley by quoting the exact number of goals the Harpies had made their last season.

"I had no idea you were a fan of the Harpies! Not many men pay attention to us," Ginny said, sending a pointed glare to her brother.

Draco smirked and shrugged nonchalantly. "I have a thing for strong females," he said a little too smoothly, glancing just slightly over at Hermione. Always the observer, Ginny caught the look and peered at him suspiciously. "And I had a bet going with one of my mates last season," Draco said quickly. "We were watching all the teams closely."

The suspicion didn't leave Ginny's eyes, but much to Draco's relief, she didn't say anything and instead turned the conversation back to how much she missed her teammates and how she couldn't wait for the baby to come. Still, he caught her glancing at him throughout dinner with a concentrated expression like she was trying to decipher a puzzle.

 _Bloody fucking hell_. The reasonable part of him was angry that he'd slipped up enough for the she-Weasley to notice, but the part of him that betrayed all logic was cheering. _You want her to notice_ , it said. Frustrated, Draco took out his anger on the too-tough tofu meal that Hermione had cooked up.

After dinner, Hermione gathered them all into the living room and poured everyone a second glass of wine. She took a seat right next to him, her thigh pressed against his on the small couch. Draco took a large gulp of wine and tried to think of anything but her skin.

"We should play a game," she suggested. Draco looked over at her like she was mad—were they six years old?

"Let's play charades!" Ginny said mischievously.

Weasley turned bright red and groaned. " _No_. I am so bad at that game, don't do this to me."

"Charades?" asked Draco curiously.

"It's a game," Hermione explained. "You're given something to act out silently and everyone else has to guess what it is. There's more rules involved but we play a more casual version. Ron's just bitter because it's a Muggle game and he's rubbish at it."

Harry nodded. "When I was four, I played with the Dursleys and my uncle told me to act like a coat rack. They all pretended they didn't know what I was and made me stand still for three hours straight with my arms out like this while they guessed." He held his arms out like a scarecrow. "It was horrible."

Ron pointed at Harry eagerly. "See? Charades brings with it some truly traumatic memories for Harry. We should play something else."

"I like charades," declared Ginny. "And I'm pregnant."

"Oh, don't you go playing the 'I'm growing a human card' on me—"

"The human incubator has spoken! We're playing charades and you can all deal with it." Hermione tore up pieces of paper and handed them out. "Write down some things to act out."

Draco stared at his piece of paper blankly. He hated Muggle parchment, it was so flimsy and weak. He craned his neck to look over Hermione's shoulder and see what she was writing, but her handwriting was small and difficult to read from afar. He sat stiffly, wine glass held in a death grip in one hand, trying to think of what he was supposed to write down on the paper.

"Just write something easy, like an animal or a famous person," Hermione leaned over and whispered to him. Her warm breath on his ear made him stiffen even more. He nodded, took a long sip of his wine, and tried to position himself away from her. She was far too close and it was having unwanted effects on him.

"Okay," Hermione said when everyone was done writing. "Into the bowl! And Ron, you can go first."

Ron mumbled grumpily as he drew a slip of paper. He read it, grumbled some more, and then held up two fingers.

"Two words," said Hermione encouragingly.

One finger.

"First word…"

Ron stood up straight and mimed writing on a board.

"Um… writing? Author!" Ginny yelled. Draco winced, unable to understand why they always found the need to use raised voices when they were so close to each other.

Ron shook his head. He traced glasses over his face, mimed sweeping robes, and pretended to call on someone.

"Oh- oh! Professor!" said Hermione.

Ron nodded vigorously.

"Okay, second word."

Reluctantly, Ron crouched to the floor and pretended to lick his hand and groom himself like an animal. Harry and Ginny burst into laughter, but Hermione tried to hold her giggles back. Draco couldn't help but feel embarrassed at the sight—is this what they always did in their free time? Make fools of themselves? If he ever willingly put himself in such an embarrassing position in front of his friends, he was fairly sure they would admit him to the psychiatric ward of St. Mungo's.

But then Weasley started strutting back and forth on all fours and even Draco couldn't help but snigger at the sight. That was the oddly nice thing about Hermione's friends—you were allowed to unabashedly feel things around them. You were allowed to be embarrassed or amused without fearing it will be used against you later, and it was a brilliantly freeing feeling.

"Is that supposed to be a cat?" Hermione guessed, accidentally letting out a laugh. "Professor Cat?"

"McGonagall," Draco said quietly, realizing what the ginger was acting out.

"What was that?" Hermione asked.

"McGonagall," he said again, louder. "It's Professor McGonagall."

"Oh, thank Merlin!" Ron said, clambering off the floor. "I really didn't want to have to mime playing with a ball of yarn."

"Good one!" Hermione whispered to Draco, who smiled slightly, proud of himself. "Now who's next?"

The group took turns and Draco began feeling more and more at home with Hermione's friends. Harry pulled a slip reading 'Ginny' and acted out a very cranky, very pregnant woman (even going so far as to stuff a pillow under his shirt), which left everyone holding their sides in laughter. Ginny drew 'owl' and had to flap about for six minutes until someone finally guessed correctly- not because they didn't know, but because Ginny looked so ridiculous pretending to be a bird.

"Owls don't look like that!" Harry said between bouts of laughter. "They don't flap so aggressively that they slap their legs!"

"Oh, shut up."

Hermione picked up her slip next and smiled slyly. "This one is mean!" she said, only half meaning it.

"Go on," Ginny encouraged, a smirk on her lips. She must have been the one to submit it.

Hermione stood up with an elegant poise that would put a pureblood witch to shame and put on a face of superiority and sophistication. She began to walk in a gliding sort of way, smiling and laughing, until she stopped abruptly, as if hitting a wall, and fell backwards.

Immediately, Harry, Ron, and Ginny dissolved into laughter.

"What?" asked Draco, confused. "I don't understand."

"It's…" Ron tried to explain, still laughing. "It's the time Fleur ran into a glass door."

Ginny was now laughing so hard she was crying. "It was the most ungraceful thing I've ever seen. Her one moment of true human vulnerability. It was absolutely… beautiful."

"Incredible," Harry added.

"Historic," declared Ron.

Even Hermione had to agree. "It was pretty fantastic."

"Oh." As much as they tried to make him feel comfortable, it was little inside jokes like that which reminded Draco he didn't belong.

"You're next!" sang Hermione, nudging Draco with her shoulder. She was a few glasses of wine in, which left her relaxed and giggly.

"No, no, I don't want to go," he said stiffly.

"You have to. We all did," said Ginny.

Draco squirmed in his seat. "I don't think I even know how…"

"You saw us do it!" Ron said. He, too, had a little much to drink, and it was showing in the red in his ears and the broad smile on his face. "It's simple. Go on."

Hermione leaned over and whispered in his ear: "Come on. It'll be fun. Remember our agreement."

"Fine," he said tersely. He pulled a slip and immediately blanched, a sick feeling overwhelming him.

 _Neville killing Nagini with the sword of Gryffindor_.

The words brought him back to the Battle at Hogwarts, where his mother sobbed as she tried to drag Draco away from the school. He was seventeen again and stuck between doing what was right and what was easy, wanting nothing more than to prove himself and his family to Voldemort, desperate to avoid another bout of Cruciatus Curses. He was a child again as he followed Harry, Ron, and Hermione into the Room of Requirement, knowing if he brought them back to Voldemort he would be redeemed, but also hoping somewhere deep inside that by some small miracle they would kill the Dark Lord.

Draco swallowed a lump in his throat and crinkled the paper. "No, I can't do this one."

"Come on, now," Ron said.

He shook his head harder. "I can't—I'll pull another-"

"No, that's the rules!"

Hermione frowned at him slightly, but she was too tipsy to realize how upset he was. Tightening his lips, Draco set down the paper and sighed. He really didn't want to do it, but he didn't want to disappoint Hermione more.

Taking a deep sigh, he curved his hands as if gripping a pole and began shifting them up and down repeatedly.

Ron sniggered. "Mate, what're you doing?"

Draco flushed, realizing what it looked like he was doing. "I-"

"No talking!" Ginny sang.

He clenched his fists and tried to keep himself from losing it. He looked down at Hermione, whose brown eyes were warm and welcoming, and he tried again, this time miming holding the Sorting Hat in one hand and pulling the sword out with the other.

"A rabbit in a hat!" guessed Harry.

"What?"

"It's a Muggle magic thing."

Draco shook his head no and mimed the motion over again. The group all stared back blankly. "You're gonna have to give us more than that," Ron said.

Draco turned even more red, and in a final attempt at acting out his phrase, he mimed bringing his hands up and down over his head as if he were chopping wood with an ax.

"Lumberjack!"

"Ax murderer!"

"Competitive whack-a-mole player!" yelled Ron.

They all began laughing again, but Draco stood, stiff, with his hands at his sides. He looked up and his eyes met Hermione's. She frowned at him and he could tell the pain and rage in his eyes was clear. He felt heat rise in his throat; he didn't want her to see him break down like this.

"Malfoy—" she said hesitantly.

"This was a mistake," he said tensely, his voice cracking. "I… have to go."

Without another look at any of them, Draco stormed up the stairs and into his room, hastily throwing the door shut. He gripped the sides of his dresser and stared at himself in the vanity mirror: his eyes were red with tears and his skin was a sickly white color. He trembled as he remembered the last time he saw himself like this, shaking over a sink in the girl's bathroom at Hogwarts. Getting himself into messes he never belonged in.

It was even worse that he had been actually enjoying himself. As much as it was awkward with her friends, it was a nonjudgmental awkwardness. He thought spending time with them would remind him of why he hated Hermione to begin with, but it only exacerbated the existing issue—that he loved being around her. That she made him so simply _happy_.

He heard shuffling up the stairs and then she was suddenly behind him, meeting his gaze in the mirror. He looked down and tried to blink away the tears building up, hating himself for being so openly weak.

"I'm fine," he said coldly. "You can go back to your friends."

"You're not fine." Her voice was soft and kind. "And you _are_ one of my friends."

His heart panged. "No. I'm not."

She sighed and he heard the springs in her mattress creak as she took a seat on the edge of his bed. "Well, I'm calling you my friend, and I really don't care what you think about that."

It angered him when she did that. When she gave him hope so flippantly, making him think he could ever be one of them. "No," he said again, turning to face her, no longer caring if she saw how red his eyes were. "I've spent so much time around you that you've turned me into someone I don't recognize—but I'm not _this_ person. I don't have dinner parties with old friends, and I certainly don't play games that involve embarrassing myself. That's not who I am."

Hermione blinked and he could see she was hurt. He felt bad, he didn't mean to hurt her… "But do you want to be that person? Do you like being that person?"

He laughed darkly. "Of course."

"Then I don't understand."

"Exactly!" He threw his hands up. "You aren't ever going to really understand me, just like I won't ever really understand you, no matter how many days and nights we might spend together. You saw me in there—I can laugh, but I don't laugh the same way you all do, so free and… light. Unbridled. I don't understand your jokes or the little looks you give each other, I don't understand your games, I don't understand why Ginny yells when she's excited, or why you don't like that Fleur woman—"

"That's okay—" she pleaded.

"No!" He said, suddenly yelling, his hands gripping at his hair anxiously. She was looking at him with those big, innocent, kind eyes, and it made it hurt so much more that he'd never have her. "Shut _up_ , Granger! Just shut up! I sit there like an outsider looking in, and it's the worst _fucking_ feeling. Don't you think I'd love to pretend I'm Longbottom saving the day during your stupid game? Don't you think I'd like to remember that day as the day my friends and I did the right thing? But I don't have those memories—I remember the day I was forced to turn my back on what was right so my family wouldn't die.

"And I try, you know, to be _that_ person," he continued, rambling like a madman as she watched, her eyes full of genuine concern. "I can change my bitter attitude, and I can pick a noble career, and I can be a nicer person, but I will never be able to erase who I used to be. I can try all I want, but there are parts of myself that can never be erased."

He looked down at his body and wanted to rip at his skin until he was naked, bleeding, and free. His hand instinctively gripped at where his Dark Mark was disfigured by layers of scar tissue after multiple attempts to rid himself of the mark.

Hermione, meanwhile, was quiet. Her head was cocked to the side as she stared at him warily, confused, her mouth parted so fucking invitingly. "I don't need you to be anyone else," she said slowly. "I meant it when I said you're my friend."

Draco laughed again, the sound hollow and pained. "You say that because you're a good fucking person, even to me. But I don't want you to have to accept my faults and my mistakes. I don't want to have to pursue a career that I hate just to redeem my name. I don't want you to have to introduce me nervously to strangers because you're afraid of how they'll react to my name. No, Hermione, I want to be like _them_. I want to be the type of person you can joke around with and have drinks with and laugh with—"

"I don't understand why you need to be like _them_. You and I laugh. We joke, we drink, we do all of those things. I know who you are and I've grown to like that person."

The way she spoke so innocently and earnestly drove him mad. There she was, beautiful as ever in the moonlight, her shoulders gleaming white, her nose scrunched up in confusion, her hair frizzing at the sides, escaping her braid. Her arms were crossed as she studied him—she really had no idea, did she?

He wrung his hands, unable to think clearly. "Are you _really_ this dense?" he yelled.

She bit her lip and frowned. "What?"

His voice started out low and gradually grew higher and higher. "I thought I hated you until I found out that I was happiest when I was with you. I feel like I'm going bloody crazy because I've never felt as… as at ease, as at home as I am around you. Which is fucking insane, because you're Hermione _fucking_ Granger!" He was yelling now, his eyes were crazed, he was pacing even faster. He could feel the adrenaline pumping through his veins and was sure he was going to make a bad decision, especially when she was chewing on her lower lip like that. "You say you understand why I'm this way and you say you can be friends with the person I am, but I'm angry because I want _more_! For fuck's sake, Granger, I want to be _like them_ —I want to be _better_ —because… because…"

Suddenly his brain went foggy, all logic flew out the window, and he was leaping at her like a tiger at its prey. His hands were holding onto the sides of her head like she was a life raft and he was drowning, and he was kissing her, soft, but firm. He felt her freeze but he continued anyway, relishing in how soft her lips were, how rough and unruly her hair was around his fingers, how she squeaked just slightly when he touched her. He kept his eye squeezed shut for a few seconds as he breathed in her scent.

After a moment he pulled back but kept his hands on the sides of her face and his forehead pressed to hers; his eyes were still closed as he whispered: "I want to make you laugh and I want to play stupid games with you and I wish, I just fucking _wish_ I was half the man who could deserve that."

They were still for a long moment, his eyes closed, hers as wide as saucers, his hands holding her like she was a precious work of art. Then she let out a ragged breath and the moment was shattered. Draco staggered backwards as reality sunk in, leaving him with a heavy pit in his stomach. She was staring at him like she had just seen a ghost. He opened his mouth, closed it again, and unable to think of a single excuse to explain what had just happened, ran out of the bedroom.

He stumbled into the hallway and into the bathroom. He sank onto the tile floor, his head in his hands, gripping his hair so hard he thought he might rip it out. Fuck, fuck, fuck, bloody hell, fuck. What had he done?

He raised his fingers to his lips, still warm from where they touched hers, and he knew he had made a mistake he'd never be able to fix

* * *

 **A/N: OMG OMG OMG he finally did it.**

 **This was one of the first scenes I wrote for this story and it's still one of my favorites. I loved writing the struggle Draco's facing between wanting to hide his feelings because he thinks he doesn't deserve her and his own desire to tell her the truth. I also listened to 'Make You Feel My Love' on repeat while writing it, and I swear it's twice as emotional if you read while listening to it (y'know, if you want to make your heart hurt more lol)**

 ** _I'm sorry to leave you lovely people on a cliffhanger, but that's how it goes. Review question: How do you think Hermione will react?_**


	18. Breaking the Charade, Part II

_songs: million reasons/lady gaga_

 **Chapter Eighteen: Breaking the Charade, Part II**

* * *

The moment Hermione thought she might have feelings for Malfoy, her mind, analytical to a fault, immediately began dissecting the situation. First, she examined the source of these feelings: she'd spent a lot of time with him recently, he'd been especially kind, he was smart, he was funny, and as much as he teased her, she could tell he had a lot of respect for her.

Then she broke down the rationality of these feelings. _Should_ she like him? The gut answer was no, of course not, his history was completely incompatible with hers. On top of that, he couldn't possibly return the feelings… Could he? He had been much more kind recently. She could've sworn he almost kissed her after that broomstick ride, too. Maybe she was imagining things. She couldn't possibly examine the situation impartially from such a biased point of view.

After spending a long sleepless night breaking down her feelings until her brain hurt, she decided she needed a break from Draco. So she invited over her friends over, hoping that a night with familiar faces would straighten out her mind. Plus, it could be a test: how would Draco behave around them?

The night, surprisingly, started out swimmingly. Draco was on his best behavior; he even went and changed into a nice forest green sweater that made him look soft and rather handsome.

When the evening began, Harry and Ron were pleasant towards Malfoy, Ginny was making an actual attempt at conversation, and everyone was enjoying her dinner, or at least pretended to.

Over dinner they discussed work, the pains of pregnancy, and Quidditch. Draco even joined in on the last conversation, adding in lots of statistics and quotes about various teams. It turned out he was fan of the Harpies, which Hermione knew gave him bonus points in everyone's books. She couldn't stop beaming throughout the night—for some reason, she wanted them to like Draco, affirming that she wasn't insane to have feelings towards him. It was almost like bringing a boy home to meet your parents for the first time and hoping they approve by the end of the night. As dinner came to a close Draco met her gaze and winked at her, sending a warm feeling down her spine. She gave him a sly smile and a nod before bowing her head in embarrassment, hoping her friends hadn't caught the short exchange.

After dinner she poured everyone besides Ginny another glass of wine and gathered the group in the living room. Harry and Ginny took a seat on one of the couches, her head in the crook of his neck, and Ron took the armchair, leaving Hermione and Draco to take the other couch. There wasn't much space on the couch, which left them pressed arm-to-arm. She felt Draco shifting in his seat, trying to find a position that minimalized their physical contact, and her heart dropped. Was he still so put off about her that he couldn't even _touch_ her? It wasn't as if she were some smelly hag. She'd even made an effort on her makeup and hair that night—for herself and for the occasion, of course, not for him. But still.

She shook the thought from her mind, finished off her glass of wine, and plastered on a smile. "Let's play charades!" she suggested.

Ron groaned. " _No_. I am so bad at that game, don't do this to me."

"Charades?" Draco looked over at her in confusion.

"It's a game. You're given something to act out silently and everyone else has to guess what it is. There's more rules involved but we play a more casual version. Ron's just bitter because it's a Muggle game and he's rubbish at it."

Harry piped in. "When I was four, I played with the Dursleys and my uncle told me to act like a coat rack. They all pretended they didn't know what I was and made me stand still for three hours straight with my arms out like this while they guessed." He held his arms out. "It was horrible."

Ron nodded his head sympathetically. "See? Charades brings with it some truly traumatic memories for Harry. We should play something else."

"I like charades," proclaimed Ginny. "And I'm pregnant."

"Don't you go playing the 'I'm growing a human' card on me-"

"The human incubator has decided!" Hermione declared. "We're playing charades and you can all deal with it." She tore up pieces of paper and handed them out. "Write down some things to act out."

While everyone else was scribbling down their ideas, Hermione felt Draco peering over her shoulder to see what she was writing—he clearly had no idea what he was doing. He was sitting as stiff as a statue, wine glass in one hand, pen in the other, looking completely out of place. She wondered if he ever played games with his family, or even got to relax around them, for that matter. Whenever he was with company, he sat as if he were balancing a pile of books on his head.

She leaned over to help, taking pity on him. "Just write something easy, like an animal or a famous person." He grunted and took a long sip of wine, leaning even further away from her than before.

"Okay," Hermione said when everyone was done writing. "Into the bowl! And Ron, you can go first."

Despite his hatred for the game, Ron willingly took his turn, and actually put some effort into it. Hermione remembered how often they would play charades at the Weasley house when she and Ron were still together. She used to go over for dinner at least once a week, but after they split it seemed strange to attend so frequently. She missed the big, happy family warmth she felt with him, though.

In the end, Draco ended up guessing Ron's charade first, which was Professor McGonagall. "Good one!" she whispered to Draco, who smiled slightly, obviously proud of himself. "Now who's next?"

The group took turns and Hermione felt the most at home she had in a long while. Harry pulled a slip reading 'Ginny' and gave a performance of a cranky, nagging woman that reminded Hermione of Mrs. Weasley. She made a mental note to never mention to Ginny how much she was turning into her mother. Ginny drew 'owl' and flapped for over five minutes before anyone guessed correctly—not because they didn't know what she was, but because she looked so ridiculously frustrated pretending to be a bird.

Hermione picked up her slip next and smiled slyly. "This one is mean!" she said, only half meaning it.

"Go on," Ginny encouraged. Hermione gave her a look, knowing she was the one who wrote it.

With the poise of someone far more sophisticated than she was, Hermione stood and turned her nose up in superiority. She began to walk in a gliding sort of way, smiling and laughing, until she stopped abruptly, as if hitting a wall, and fell backwards.

Immediately, Harry, Ron, and Ginny dissolved into laughter. Hermione smirked and went to pour herself another glass of wine before falling back onto the couch next to Draco, who looked incredibly confused. "What? I don't understand."

"It's…" Ron tried to explain, still laughing. "It's the time Fleur ran into a glass door."

Ginny was wiping tears of mirth from her cheeks. "It was the most ungraceful thing I've ever seen. Her one moment of true human vulnerability. It was absolutely… beautiful."

"Incredible," Harry added.

"Historic," declared Ron.

Hermione gave a small shrug of agreement. "It was pretty fantastic."

"Oh." Draco looked confused and uncomfortable, clearly not understanding their humor.

Hermione took another long sip of her wine, now starting to feel the slight pleasant buzz of alcohol in her brain. "You're next!" she said, nudging Draco with her shoulder.

Draco frowned. "No, no, I don't want to go."

"You have to. We all did," said Ginny.

Draco looked even more uncomfortable, if it was even possible. "I don't think I even know how…"

"You saw us do it!" Ron said. "It's simple. Go on."

Hermione leaned over and whispered in Malfoy's ear: "Come on. It'll be fun. Remember our agreement."

"Fine," he said tersely. He pulled a slip, blanched, and shook his head at her. "No, I can't do this one."

"Come on, now," Ron said.

"I can't—I'll pull another-"

"No, that's the rules!"

Hermione could sense he was uncomfortable, but hesitated to say anything. He glanced over at her before setting down the paper with a sigh.

Taking a deep breath, he curved his hands as if gripping a pole and began shifting them up and down repeatedly.

Ron sniggered. "Mate, what're you doing?" Hermione flashed him a look and he quickly silenced.

Draco flushed. "I—"

"No talking!" Ginny sang.

Draco looked down and Hermione noticed his fists clench. She held her breath, hoping he didn't snap. He took a moment, then tried again. This time he mimed holding something in one hand pulling something out of it with the other hand. Then he waved the item he pulled out in the air wildly.

"A rabbit in a hat!" guessed Harry.

"What?"

"It's a Muggle magic thing."

Draco shook his head no and mimed the motion over again. Hermione sat tensely and hoped to Merlin that someone guessed it soon, because he was beginning to turn pink with embarrassment. "You're gonna have to give us more than that," Ron said.

In a final attempt at acting out his phrase, Draco mimed bringing his hands up and down over his head as if he were chopping wood with an ax.

"Lumberjack!" guessed Harry.

"Ax murderer!" said Ginny.

"Competitive whack-a-mole player!" yelled Ron.

They all began laughing again, but Draco stood, stiff, with his hands at his sides. Hermione looked up and her giggle died in her throat when their eyes met. His eyes were frighteningly red and he looked as if he were stuck between yelling and crying.

"Malfoy-" she said softly.

"This was a mistake." His voice cracked as he searched her face wildly. "I… have to go." He tore his gaze away from her and ran up the stairs. The laughter immediately ceased.

"What was that?" asked Ron.

"Is he okay?" added Ginny.

Hermione ignored her friends and picked up Draco's slip of paper off the floor. Ron scoffed. "He can dish out all the insults in the world, but the moment we start laughing at him, he can't take it. What a—"

"Stop," said Hermione, her hands shaking as she read the paper. "He picked one of my slips."

"What was it?"

" _Neville killing Nagini with the sword,_ " she read. She couldn't believe she'd been so dense. Neville killing Nagini was something of an inside joke between their friends, a reference they used when someone who was normally reserved did something badass, but of course Draco didn't see it that way.

The group was silent again. "Is that what upset him?" asked Ginny.

"I don't know. I… I should go talk to him. It probably… it isn't the same memory for him as it is for us. I didn't even think…" She felt her heart hurting for him more than it should. A month ago she would have left him to simmer alone in his room so she could spend time with her friends, but now all she wanted to do was be by him and make sure he was okay. "Just wait here for a couple minutes," she said to her friends.

She found Draco in his bedroom, standing by the bed in front of the dresser mirror. He was staring straight ahead, perhaps studying his face, perhaps not looking at anything at all, just thinking. The lights were all off, the room illuminated only by the moonlight. When she walked up behind him, his eyes met hers in the reflection.

"I'm fine," he said coldly. "You can go back to your friends."

"You're not fine," she said firmly. "And you _are_ one of my friends."

His lip twitched. "No. I'm not."

She sighed and took a seat on the edge of his bed. Here he went with those mood swings again. He could be stubborn, but he'd met his match with her. "Well, I'm calling you my friend, and I don't really care what you think about that."

"No," he said again, this time firm. He turned around and she saw his eyes were red, as if he were about to cry, making her soften in surprise. "I've spent so much time around you that you've turned me into something I don't recognize—but I'm not _this_ person. I don't have dinner parties with old friends, and I certainly don't play games that involve embarrassing myself. That's not who I am."

Hermione blinked back a tear. She didn't know she was forcing him to be someone else. She just assumed she was uncovering a better side to him. "But do you want to be that person?" she asked weakly. "Do you like being that person?"

"Of course."

"Then I don't understand." Her voice was hardly louder than a whisper.

"Exactly!" He threw his hands up and she winced—she'd seen him angry and bitter and even sad, but she'd never seen him so… defeated. "You aren't ever going to really understand me, just like I won't ever really understand you, no matter how many days and nights we spend together. You saw me in there—I can laugh, but I don't laugh the same way you all do, so free and... light. Unbridled. I don't understand your jokes or the little looks you give each other, I don't understand your games, I don't understand why Ginny yells when she's excited, or why you don't like that Fleur woman—"

"That's okay—" she pleaded, trying to get him to calm down. Her mind whirred as she tried to process his words. What was he implying? Why did he think she couldn't understand him?

"No!" he yelled. "Shut _up_ , Granger! Just shut up!" She flinched again, but he was pacing too fast to notice. "I sit there like an outsider looking in, and it's the worst _fucking_ feeling. Don't you think I'd love to pretend I'm Longbottom saving the day during your stupid game? Don't you think I'd like to remember that day as the day my friends and I did the right thing? But I don't have those memories—I remember the day I was forced to turn my back on what was right so my family wouldn't die."

They hadn't yet talked about the Battle of Hogwarts, and now she understood why. It was too much for him to handle. She recalled how he cornered them in the Room of Requirement, and for the first time, remembered the incident with pity.

"And I try, you know, to be _that_ person," he continued. "I can change my bitter attitude, and I can pick a noble career, and I can be a nicer person, but I will never be able to erase who I used to be. I can try all I want, but there are parts of myself that can never be erased." He looked down at his own body with spite in his eyes, as if it were the most disgusting thing he'd ever had the displeasure of seeing.

Hermione was quiet. She studied the way Malfoy worked; he was like an intricate bomb that needed to be disassembled just right, otherwise he'd explode. She had to remove the right parts in just the right order.

"I don't need you to be anyone else," she said slowly. "I meant it when I said you're my friend."

Draco laughed in a desperate, pained way. "You say that because you're a good fucking person, even to me. But I don't want you to have to accept my faults and my mistakes. I don't want to have to pursue a career that I hate just to redeem my name. I don't want you to have to introduce me nervously to strangers because you're afraid of how they'll react to my name. No, Hermione, I want to be _like them._ I want to be the type of person you can joke around with and have drinks with and laugh with—"

"I don't understand why you need to be _like_ them," she said. "We laugh, we joke, we drink. I know who you are and I've grown to like that person." Her heart was beating so hard she could feel it against her ribs. He wanted to be like her friends, he wanted… he wanted her to _like_ him. She hadn't been crazy. There _was_ something there.

He looked at her, eyes glazed and wild like she was a glass of water and he was a stranded desert traveller. He was staring at her lips and she felt her heart beat fast. "Are you _really_ this dense?" he asked.

"What?" she whispered, waiting for him to confirm, not wanting to assume the wrong thing.

His voice started out low and gradually grew higher and higher. "I thought I hated you until I found out that I was happiest when I was with you. I feel like I'm going bloody crazy because I've never felt as… at ease, as at home as I am around you. Which is fucking insane, because you're Hermione _fucking_ Granger!" Her breath quickened; she didn't understand what he was saying, but she wanted to hear more. "You say you understand why I'm this way and you say you can be friends with that person, but I'm angry because I want _more_! For fuck's sake, Granger, I want to be _like them_ —I want to be _better_ —because… because…"

Suddenly he stopped pacing and she saw it coming a split second before it happened but didn't do anything to stop it—he took two long strides to close the gap between them, pressing himself to her. She felt two warm, coarse hands cradle the sides of her head and then, all at once, he was kissing her, soft but desperate. She froze, unable to process everything properly: his touch, his lips, the way he smelled of old books and pine needles.

She thought her instinct would be to push him away, but something about the moment felt so inexplicably _fitting_ , as if this was exactly what the two of them were meant to be doing. Just as she softened her lips to join the kiss, he ripped himself away but kept his hands on her neck and pressed his forehead to hers. His eyes were still closed and his lips were just centimeters away from hers as he whispered: "I want to make you laugh and I want to play stupid games with you and I wish, I just fucking _wish_ I was half the man who could deserve that."

They were still for a long moment, his eyes closed, hers as wide as saucers, his hands holding her so delicately. Then she let out a ragged breath she didn't know she was holding and he staggered backwards, his face now as shocked as hers, neither of them able to believe what had just happened. He opened his mouth, closed it again, and sped out of the bedroom.

Hermione sat, frozen in shock. He kissed her. He fucking _kissed_ her.

And it felt bloody fucking amazing.

She took a finger and touched her lips gently: they were still tingling. She could still feel how warm his hands were, she would never have guessed he would be so warm.

She blinked and let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding.

 _Shit._

* * *

Hermione splashed her face with cold water before finally going back downstairs. She tried to put on a normal expression, but her friends were already looking confused.

"Malfoy just ran out the door," said Ginny. "He ran right past us and out the door with a pack of cigarettes."

"Didn't even say goodbye," Ron added, his mouth full of some biscuits Hermione left out.

"He smokes when he's stressed," she lied. She kept her head down so they wouldn't see how red her cheeks were. Hopefully he only went out to smoke, hopefully he wasn't running away.

 _He kissed you, he kissed you, he kissed you._

"What happened?" asked Harry. "Is he angry with us?"

Hermione shook her head and began clearing their glasses and plates from the dining room. "No, everything's fine. He just needed a moment alone to clear his head." Despite her best efforts, her voice was coming out unnaturally high-pitched and shaky.

 _You're normally very observant. How did you not see this coming?_

Ginny put her hand on her friend's shoulder. "Should we leave?"

"It is getting late," Hermione squeaked. "Perhaps you should head home."

 _Is he coming back? He can't just leave, can he? Did he think she hated it? She didn't hate it. In fact, she really wanted him to come back and do it again._

"Are you okay, Hermione?"

She tried her best to look chipper. "Of course. He gets angry all the time. You know that Slytherin temperament."

 _He kissed you, and you liked it._

Harry also approached his friend, sensing her jumpiness. "Hermione?"

She took the pile of dishes into the kitchen, tried to lift them onto the counter, and then…

 _Smash_!

 _Did he like it, too?_

Her three friends ran into the kitchen, where five plates and wine glasses were shattered on the floor. "Shit," cursed Hermione. "Where's my wand?"

Ginny handed her the wand and then turned to her husband and brother. "Go home, you two. I'll wait with her until Malfoy comes back in."

"Are you sure?"

"Go," she whispered to Harry, who understood the tone of her voice. This was a woman's matter.

"We'll see you later, Hermione," he said.

"Bye," said Ron.

Hermione waved her wand and the shards began to reassemble into plates.

 _Why in the name of all that is holy and good did you have to fall for someone so goddamned complicated?_

"Okay, Hermione," the ginger witch said firmly once the men were gone. "What happened?"

She hesitated. "I…"

"You have to tell me. It's the rule of friendship."

As Hermione tried to find the words to even begin to describe what had just happened to her, a bubble of laughter tickled its way up her throat and out into the silent kitchen. The laughter started out gentle but soon turned into hysterical, belly laughing. Ginny looked at her as if she had grown a second head. "What is going on?"

"He kissed me!" Hermione cried, laughing. She fell backwards onto a dining room chair and buried her face in her hands. "Oh, my God… Draco Malfoy _kissed_ me."

" _What_?" Ginny was white as a sheet.

"I don't know! He was rambling about how he hated himself and how he wishes he could play charades like you all do, and then he was yelling and all of a sudden he was kissing me."

Ginny's eyebrows were halfway up her forehead. "Whoa."

"I know."

"Did you like it?"

"Ginny!" exclaimed Hermione.

"Objectively speaking, did you like it?"

"I guess it was… well, objectively, it was nice." She didn't want to admit just how nice it was quite yet. She had to grapple with that fact herself before telling her friend. "I'm still trying to figure out why… I didn't think… I mean, there were a few signs, but…"

Ginny leaned back and rubbed her belly thoughtfully like a man would stroke his beard. "Well, it could be several things. He might have a lot of pent up emotions and stress and he went temporarily insane, or he might have a lot of sexual energy to get rid of."

"None of those make me feel comfortable."

"Or—and don't hate me—but he could like you." Hermione blushed and tried to pretend to be disgusted at the thought. Ginny shook her head in awe. "I can't believe he kissed you! Weren't you two at each other's throats just a few weeks ago?"

"We're always at each other's throats. I can't think of a single day in which we didn't fight at least once."

"You didn't fight tonight," the redhead mused. "And now that I think about it, the only time he wasn't sitting like his spine was fused together was when you were talking to him. In fact, the only time he even smiled all night was whenever you leaned over and whispered something to him. Are you sure you've really been bickering, or is this another case of Hermione Granger not knowing what flirting is?"

Hermione ran over the past month and a half in her head: sharing a cigarette in Paris, taking a joyride with him on a golf cart, fussing over him after their duel, dancing with him in Spain, clutching him tight on a broomstick, waking up smelling like him after a nightmare, helping him with his research, cooking him meals, falling asleep next to him on the couch as they watched _Bambi_. It hit her like a punch in the gut—they'd been flirting this entire time. She just hadn't realized it.

Ginny reached out and grabbed Hermione's hand comfortingly. "I can't say I understand this, because that man is a temperamental git who doesn't seem to have a humorous cell in his body, but if someone as astute and calculated as _Draco Malfoy_ kissed you…" She looked at her friend knowingly. "He must have had a good reason to think you'd want to kiss him back."

Before Hermione could respond, the front door swung open and Draco stepped back inside, the faint smell of cigarette smoke wafting in with him. Her body immediately relaxed at the sight of him, immediately comforted by knowing he was still there. His eyes briefly met hers before he rushed up the stairs and away from her. She sighed. At least he came back.

"You can go home," Hermione said. "I'll be fine here."

Ginny squeezed her friend's hand gently and gave her a small smile. "You know I would never judge you, right?"

"Ginny, I don't—"

"Just remember that. Okay?"

Hermione nodded, a horrible twisting feeling in her stomach. Nausea and butterflies battled as she thought about Draco waiting upstairs. How was she supposed to face him again? What was she supposed to say? Did she tell him the truth? What if he regretted it?

She tried to shut off her brain and gave Ginny a small smile. "I'll be okay. You really can go now."

The moment Ginny left she went up to Draco's door, but it was charmed shut. With an aching heart she turned back to her own bedroom, where she found a scrap of paper on her pillow.

 _I'm sorry. Shouldn't have happened._

A sob caught in her throat as she clutched the paper close to her chest and tried to stop the tears from spilling. He regretted it. Of course he did. He probably thought she hated him for kissing her, and now he would never believe her when she told him she felt the exact opposite of hatred towards him.

* * *

 **A/N: Sorry that this doesn't give much extra content, but I really wanted to present the scene from Hermione's POV. Next chapter, the awkward heart-wrenching conflict will commence!**

 _Review question: I don't have a question relating to the story so I guess I'll have y'all be my online therapists LOL. How do you trust people after being betrayed in the past? It's a tough thing to get past, as I'm experiencing. Personal stories/wise quotes/jokes about the fragility of human emotion/anecdotes/etc are all appreciated!_

 **-potato.**


	19. Ready to Fight

_songs: 'almost is never enough'/ariana grande_

 _'not about angels'/birdie_

 **Chapter Nineteen: Ready to Fight**

* * *

Draco managed to avoid Hermione for nearly an entire day. After receiving Draco's note, Hermione wanted nothing more than to talk about what had happened, but judging by the fact that he had only left his room so far to grab a glass of water and an orange before bolting himself back up inside, she could tell he wasn't open to the conversation.

But staying away from another person in an eight hundred square foot cottage was not an easy task. The inevitable happened at exactly 5:04 in the early evening: Hermione was walking towards the kitchen just as Draco was exiting the bathroom, forcing them together in the hallway, face-to-face with nowhere to go. Hermione's eyes were on Draco's, but his were on the floor, his hands in his pockets, his pride gone. He was wearing loose pants and an old t-shirt; his hair was a mess and his shoulders were slumped in defeat. It was a pitiful sight.

Suddenly she was nervous, standing face-to-face with him. She mustered up all the Gryffindor nerve she could, squared her shoulders, and lifted her chin. "We should talk," she said in a wavering voice that betrayed her confident pose.

Draco lifted his eyes, which were circled by dark rings. He looked… empty. "No."

"I think it's important that we talk about what happened," she said steadily. "Especially since we're working together."

Hermione couldn't lie to herself—she enjoyed kissing Malfoy. She enjoyed it more than she should have, but she spent all night thinking about the idea of them together, and came to the conclusion that it would likely never work out between them. He thought it was a mistake, after all. His feelings were, as he said, a product of being around one another too much. It was temporary insanity brewing in the bubble only they inhabited. Maybe if it were under circumstances, if certain things hadn't happened, if he was _anyone_ else it could work… But the reality was, she was Hermione Granger and he was Draco Malfoy. Any feelings she had needed to be stuffed into a box and buried in a deep, deep hole, never to see the light of day again. But if that was going to happen, they would need to talk about the kiss. Find closure.

Draco ran a hand through his hair wearily. "Working together won't be an issue much longer. I'll be sending an owl tomorrow to the Ministry explaining that due to extenuating circumstances, I will not be able to continue my work with you. They will likely arrange for a replacement by the end of the week."

His voice was cold and robotic, lacking any resolve or fight. His pride was gone, he was finished. She shook her head. "That's not fair. You don't get to do what you did and then run away."

He glared. "I believe I do, Granger. That's what I do best, anyway—running away from my problems."

"I didn't say that—"

"I know you didn't. _I'm_ saying that. I can't be here anymore."

She sucked in a deep breath. "Well, _I_ need to talk about it. I can't just sit here all day and think about what happened and wonder what the hell was going on… Draco, I need to discuss it."

"Not all of us suffer from the need to analyze every little thing that happens, Granger! Just forget about it, because it didn't mean anything. I wasn't in my right state of mind and I didn't mean what I said. You aren't anything but part of my job, why can't you get that through your overactive brain?"

Tears stung Hermione's eyes. His words hurt more than she thought they would. She bit her lip so hard she tasted the metallic tang of blood, blood on the lips he kissed, blood he used to despise. She deserved more than this, better than this. Just as she was about to turn around and leave before he could see her cry, there was a loud tap coming from the kitchen. Draco turned around and they saw in the window a small tawny owl carrying a thick envelope.

"Shit," he muttered.

Hermione quickly wiped the corners of her eyes, shoving her feelings aside. "What is it?"

"That's the same type of envelope that came when Pansy was killed."

Hermione felt her blood run cold. They unwrapped the envelope together at the dining room table, their conflict temporarily set aside. Draco's breath hitched the moment he read the first line. "Who?" she asked, afraid to hear his answer.

"Francesca Zabini, wife of Mathieu Zabini," he said darkly.

"The one in our year at Hogwarts?" She vaguely recalled the name from one of Slughorn's Slug Club parties.

"No, that was his brother, Blaise. Mathieu was a few years above us." Draco spread the papers across the table and Hermione had to turn away—there were a few photographs of a bloody, mutilated body.

"Oh, my god…"

"Murdered," Draco said grimly. He lowered his forehead into his hands and pinched his brow. "This confirms it. They're out to get revenge. It's some sort of quest for retribution."

Hermione pushed all other thoughts from her mind and tried to focus on the notes. Francesca had been taking a smoke break last evening when she was attacked on her balcony. Her husband found her minutes after the attack—her shirt had been removed and a deep lightning-bolt was carved into her chest. She bled out before Mathieu even had a chance to help.

According to the notes, Mathieu was a low-level Death Eater who avoided Azkaban with just a five-year probation sentence. His only kill was the family of a Hogwarts student named Isabella Wright, who graduated a year ago. What was curious was the target of the incident: whoever attacked Francesca could have easily killed her husband instead. It was similar to Pansy, who was never a Death Eater herself, but had connections to one—her father.

"They're doing what the Death Eaters did to us," she whispered, suddenly understanding. "They're aiming at their loved ones, their families… they want to take away who these people loved. They want them to feel how we felt. It's a fate worse than death- a life without the people you love."

Draco pursed his lips, mulling over her theory. "It makes sense."

"But then, what about the two attacks previous…" Hermione gasped, realization dawning on her, slapping her in the face. How had she not seen it before? "Astoria Greengrass."

Draco frowned. "What?"

"The first night at the Burrow. Astoria Greengrass was there. She's dating Charlie Weasley. They must have wanted to kill Astoria to hurt her father—he was a Death Eater, right?"

The blond man leaned back and let the air escape his mouth through his teeth. "Not a Death Eater, but her father did serve Voldemort. Spied a bit, gave a lot of money. I had no idea she was there that night… Now it makes sense. They wanted the first attack to throw us off guard, so we would think it was aimed at Potter."

"But they came too late in the evening—by the time they broke in, Charlie and Astoria were gone."

"So they made it look like a failed attempt on Potter's life and fled," Draco finished. Hermione felt an burn in her stomach, one she got whenever she put the last piece of a puzzle together or finally solved a difficult Arithmancy problem set.

His eyes met hers and he gave her a small smile before remembering they were not on comfortable terms and averting his gaze again. She sighed. "We should set things aside for at least tonight and try to investigate these cases. The Ministry won't take our theory seriously without a substantial amount of irrefutable evidence."

He nodded. "I agree."

"Good. I'll make tea and then we'll get right to it."

* * *

Two hours and a kettle of tea later, the pair settled on a theory: whoever was behind the attacks was certainly not acting alone. The two perpetrators already caught—Trentin and Lisa— were from considerably different backgrounds and lived in different countries. The only link was that they both lost loved ones in the war. Both were also wearing white when they carried out their crimes—white being the opposite of the color the Death Eaters wore. The color of purity, righteousness, and light. They believed what they were doing was objectively just, which explained the use of the lightning bolt symbol—they were hijacking Harry's famous scar as a nod to what he stood for.

"It's disgusting," Hermione whispered as she read the files over for the fifth time. "I hate that they're associating Harry with what they're doing. This is the last thing he would want."

"I would think you'd be more sympathetic to their cause."

She glared. "Just because I lost friends in the war doesn't mean I wish death upon others. An eye for an eye makes the whole world blind."

"But an eye for an eye is also immensely satisfying," he said, apparently tickled by her metaphor.

"Shouldn't you be more sensitive about this? These are your friends who are being targeted."

She saw a vein twitch in his forehead. "They were hardly friends."

She hadn't meant to offend him. "I didn't mean it that way."

"It's fine," he said, even though it very obviously wasn't.

Hermione went back to the files and then frowned, a thought occurring to her. "We haven't discussed what happened at the bakery in Spain."

"There wasn't a lightning bolt, was there?"

"No, but we stopped the attack before it could be completed. Perhaps there was supposed to be one but we stopped her before she could do it."

He knit his brows and rubbed the back of his neck thoughtfully. "Why would someone want to attack you? Did that Daniel fellow have any ties to the Death Eaters?"

"No, definitely not. But he couldn't have been the target, because they Imperiused him, remember?" Hermione said. She tried to recall that horrible day—was there anyone else around them? Anyone suspicious, anyone who could have been the target other than Daniel?

Then she remembered the offhand comment Daniel made to her that day—that some Parisian gossip magazines ran a story about Hermione and Draco being a couple. She gasped. "It was us."

"What?"

"You and me! Daniel told me he saw an article in a gossip magazine about how you and I were dating. There were photos of that one night we went to dinner in Paris. Whoever attacked me—"

"Was aiming to hurt me," he finished. "They thought injuring you would get to me."

Hermione felt her cheeks flush and she looked down at the table. Perhaps it wouldn't have worked back then, but would it now? Would it pain him if she were harmed?

"No, but that doesn't make sense," Draco continued with a deep frown. "All the other victims meant nothing to the Order. Astoria, Pansy, Francesca… no one on the light side would really care if they died. But you? You're a celebrated war heroine. It wouldn't be worth it to kill you, even if it did hurt me."

He made an astute point. If whoever was behind this was so fiercely against the Death Eaters that they were willing to create an underground network of Robin Hood killers, they wouldn't want to kill her. "You're right. That doesn't make sense."

"Maybe the curse wasn't aimed at you… Maybe it was meant for me—I was just behind the window, after all…" He dove back into the notes.

Hermione took a shaky breath, unable to get the thought of her being the one person Draco would miss. She really needed to talk about what had happened last night. "Malfoy?" she asked.

"Hm?"

" _Would_ it have hurt you if they killed me?"

He paused and she saw his jaw clench. "What the hell kind of question is that?"

"I was just—"

"I thought we agreed not to talk about that right now."

She strained, unable to keep her feelings at bay. "I'm sorry, I thought I could, but… I really need to know what's going on," she pleaded. There were too many emotions running through her head: on one hand she wanted him to tell her he hated her so she could squash her own feelings and move on, and on the other hand she wanted him to kiss her again and give her a reason to take a gamble on him.

A vein in his forehead twitched as he looked down at the papers spread on the table. "Two people associated with my past have been murdered, and there might have already been an attempt on my own life. I appreciate that you offered to help figure this out, but I really do not have time to discuss… _other_ topics with you."

" _Other topics?_ How is this fair? You tell me all those things and kiss me and now you're just going to ignore it all?"

"Shut up!" Draco suddenly rose, pounded a fist on the table, and sent several papers flying onto the floor. Hermione jumped back in her chair in fright.

"Malfoy—"

"I can't do this right now." His eyes were wild, darting across the floor, staring at the photos of Pansy Parkinson and Francesca Zabini's bloody, mutilated bodies. Hermione felt guilt sink in—he was frightened. He didn't want to end up like them, cut open and left for someone to find. Except, there wasn't anyone around to find him. Besides her, maybe.

"I'm sorry—" she tried to say, but Draco shook his head.

"I need a fucking drink," he muttered.

"I won't bring it up again—" she said, but he was already walking away and pulling his coat off the rack. "Where are you going?"

"I'm getting a fucking drink," he snarled.

"You can't leave—you're not supposed to leave me alone," she declared, hand on her hip.

With eyes hardened like steel, Draco stared her down in a way that shook her to her bones. "Did you forget who I am, Granger? Did you forget that I'm a former Death Eater? Did you forget that there are people out there who want me dead, who want to hurt me for what I did in the past? Did you forget all that? Because I did. This past month, thanks to you, I forgot, and yesterday I even tricked myself into thinking I could love you, but I don't. I _can't_. I'm not one of the good guys and it would do you well to remember that."

Tears began to make their way up to her eyes and her vision blurred as Draco ripped open the front door. She didn't say anything as he left, but she did make out a certain look in his eyes—perhaps it wasn't really there, perhaps she imagined it in her hazy vision, but preferred to think it was real—it was a moment of guilt, of softness, that told her, in the simplest way: I'm sorry.

* * *

Hermione cleaned for the rest of the day. She picked up the papers in the kitchen, re-organized them, and put them back in their envelopes. She washed all the dirty dishes, dusted, vacuumed the carpet, and wiped down every counter and flat surface she could find. Then she moved upstairs to her room: all her clothes were unfolded and re-folded again. She fluffed her pillows and straightened her bed sheets. The cleanliness was satisfying and distracting, and by the time she finished the sun had set and the persistent hunger pains in her stomach were getting too strong to ignore. In the fridge she found a plate of Draco's leftovers. The hunger pains disappeared and were replaced by anxious ones.

He was probably back in England by now, asking for a replacement, explaining how he couldn't work with her anymore. Maybe he was even telling Harry or Ron about their theory that the attacks where targeting Death Eaters. A knot developed in her throat when she thought of Harry and Ron. What she needed most right now was a friend.

She floo-called the Potter residence, and conveniently spotted Ginny was sitting in an armchair in front of their hearth, looking very frustrated as she tried to knit a baby beanie. "Hermione!" she gasped in surprise when her friend's head popped up in the firewood.

"Hey, Gin."

Ginny set aside her knitting needles. "Is everything okay?"

Hermione sighed. "Not at the moment, but it will be. I think I just need some company, if that's okay. Are you busy?"

"Not at all. Could you come over here instead? Taking the Floo last night left me sick for hours."

A few minutes later, Hermione was snuggled under a throw blanket on Ginny's couch and sipping from a warm cup of tea. "Is this about what happened last night?" Ginny asked.

"Of course."

"I figured as much. You were the same way when things with Ron ended."

Hermione sniffed. "I was a _much_ bigger mess then."

"True… You had these awful red splotchy cheeks that looked like a rash when you cried."

"Ginny!" Hermione threw a balled-up tissue at her friend.

"Sorry, sorry! So what happened? Malfoy was okay with you leaving and coming here?"

"He actually left first. A few hours ago he stormed out and told me he was going for a drink."

"Really? But you said he was so anal about following the Auror's rules."

"He _really_ didn't want to talk about it," Hermione said. "And he doesn't… he doesn't seem to care anymore. I have a feeling our travels are going to end soon. There was another attack, and we have this theory… Well, we think they're targeting people associated with former Death Eaters. Has Harry mentioned anything like that to you?"

Ginny frowned. "Harry usually discusses his cases with me, but he hasn't said much about this one. He has this moronic idea that it'll hurt the baby if I'm stressed. That's a really crazy theory, Hermione…"

"I know, but when you look at the facts, it makes sense," she said. "Draco and I were discussing it when he left."

"Draco?" Ginny asked, eyebrow cocked. Hermione sank down in her seat.

"I suppose I sometimes call him that now?"

Ginny chuckled and shook her head. "This is all so bloody weird. Never in a thousand years would I think this could happen… You and Malfoy…"

"I know," Hermione groaned. "I wish it hadn't."

"So you'll admit it, then? You have feelings?"

Hermione thought of their kiss and squirmed as butterflies tickled her stomach again. She thought of how he looked when he left, and her throat tightened up as she tried to stop herself from crying again. It might not be romantic love, it might just be a case of caring too much, but whatever she had for Malfoy, it was definitely feelings. "Yes," she admitted quietly. "I have feelings. I don't know what they mean yet, but they're there."

"And you need to figure them out," Ginny finished matter-of-factly. "Because you're Hermione Granger, you have no patience, you can't let things be, and you must analyze everything in as much detail as possible."

Hermione felt embarrassed, like she had just been called a know-it-all in class again, even though she knew her friend meant it in jest. Had she been too pushy?

"I'm not saying you were wrong," Ginny continued. "I think you know yourself very well, you like to know what's going on, and there's nothing wrong with that. But maybe you were a little too… overwhelming for Malfoy. He doesn't strike me as the type to lay his feelings out on the table."

"He's not. He told me the kiss was a mistake, that he didn't mean it."

Ginny's eyes were soft as she looked at her friend. "Do you want it to be?"

Hermione tugged the blanket around her tighter. "I'm not sure."

Ginny sighed and nodded sagely. "Can I share something with you?"

"Of course."

"You remember after the war, when everything was so… painful. Every day it was like we were stepping on the shards of what had broken, reopening our wounds. Things were so _different_ , and for a while, I didn't know if I wanted to love Harry. He had such a hard time adjusting to a life that wasn't under constant threat, and I wasn't sure I was ready to be tied down so young to someone so damaged."

Hermione was shocked. Ginny was always a pillar of strength in their lives, unwavering and stubborn and strong. She had no idea Ginny was questioning whether or not she even wanted to love Harry.

"So I took some time away from him, you remember that, of course. I needed that time to heal from losing my brother and my friends and even my childhood, for that matter. But being away from Harry hurt—like actual, physical pain. Whenever I opened the drawer that used to hold his shirts and smelled his scent, or when I happened to cook his favorite meal and he wasn't there to eat it, or when I saw his picture in magazines… I could feel my heart strain against my chest. I knew I could eventually be okay on my own, that I could heal and be all right. But at the end of the day, I _wanted_ to be in love with him. I wanted a life with him, even if it meant dealing with a man who would always be a little broken from his past. I guess that's the question you have to ask yourself—do you want to take on the burden that is Draco Malfoy?"

Hermione's own heart strained a little in her chest when Ginny said his name. She thought of Draco, how much he could infuriate her like no one else could. But she also thought of how he kept her on his toes, how he enjoyed discussing intellectual matters with her, how he was mature and sharp. He matched and balanced her well, and she felt like a new, more confident version of herself around him. She liked who she was when she was with him, when he wasn't being an arsehole.

"I don't want the kiss to have been a mistake," she whispered, a few tears slipping out and falling into her empty teacup. "I just don't know if I can wait for him to figure himself out in the meantime."

Ginny moved to sit next to her friend and pulled her close. "I'm sorry, Hermione. I'm sorry it can't be easier."

Hermione sighed into her friend's chest, which smelled of cinnamon and home. "What do I do, Gin?"

"You do whatever the hell is going to make you happy, Hermione. Because you deserve absolute happiness, and don't you dare settle for anything less."

* * *

Once back at the cottage in Rhode Island, she wrapped herself up in a soft plush blanket and sat back down at the kitchen table. She heated herself up a mug of hot cocoa, popped a bag of microwave popcorn, and pulled out one of her favorite notebooks. Slowly, she began writing down the name of everyone she knew who lost a loved one in the war. It seemed endless, the names; she filled up three pages in less than an hour. Countless classmates, friends, distant family members, professors, shop owners… It felt like everyone lost _someone_.

Once she finished, she began circling names on the list: people who had to be hospitalized due to post traumatic stress, those who disappeared for a little to be alone with their grief, those who still hadn't recovered. With a heavy heart, she circled names of people she used to know with light hearts and smiling faces—Lavender Brown, Angelina Johnson, Seamus Finnegan. It could have been any of them, she realized. It could have even been her, if she hadn't had friends to support her.

She tried her best to distract herself from the clock. Every tick of the second hand echoed in the empty house, reminding her that she was by herself. At midnight the old grandfather clock chimed twelve times.

 _Dong_

She was determined to figure out who was behind the attacks.

 _Dong_

The first lightning bolt was burned with fire. The second was carved with a knife into the floor. The third was cut with a curse into Francesca's chest.

 _Dong_

They wore white. They knew Dark Magic. They were cold enough to cast Unforgivables. They knew who to target and they had people in different locations to carry out the attacks.

 _Dong_

They were aiming for the loved ones of former Death Eaters. They wanted precise revenge—an eye for an eye. They wanted Voldemort's followers to feel exactly what they felt.

 _Dong_

Draco could be one of the targets.

 _Dong_

Draco. When did he become Draco?

 _Dong_

Was it the first time he smiled at her, a real smile? Was it the first time she touched his arm as they poked fun at one another? Was it when she stared in awe at his potion work? Was it when he held her around the waist and she felt his breath on her ear? Was it when he kissed her?

 _Dong_

She wasn't sure he was going to come back at this point.

 _Dong_

She thought hard about what Ginny said. She really did deserve happiness. She deserved someone who would take her anxieties away, not add to them. She deserved someone who had endless smiles to give her, who would touch her without reserve, and who would tell her he loved her, that she was beautiful. She had doubts that Draco could be that person.

But she knew she would always wonder ' _what if_ ' if she didn't give him a chance.

 _Dong_

So she decided, her heart aching like a fresh bruise, that she was going to give him that chance. She was going to see if he came back, and if he did, she would fight for that chance.

 _Dong_.

Her eyelids began to droop, giving in to her exhaustion. She would nap, she decided. She would wake up if the door opened… She could just lie down for a moment…

 _Dong_.

.

.

.

An undeterminable amount of time later, the door creaked open and hit the wall with a slam. A cold gust of wind swept in and carried with it the smell of rain and whiskey. Hermione woke with a start as Draco staggered back in to the cottage.

The pain registered before anything else did—the sensation that he was pressing down on her bruised heart, radiating dull aching throbs across her chest. She ignored the pain and sat up, head high, her mind made. He came back, and she was ready to fight for him.

* * *

 **Okay, don't hate me, but I'm traveling abroad for a week starting tomorrow and I'm not sure if I'm going to have Internet while I'm gone *ducks*. I'm sorry the timing had to be so bad with the tension building in the story! But to defend myself, I'm a full-time student with a job and I also do a lot volunteer shit and I never have free time so I'm going to enjoy my break!**

 **Leave me a comment for me to enjoy when I finally get Internet! Maybe I'll end up with connection and I'll be able to post mid-week. We'll see. I hate leaving it here because I don't really like this chapter.**

 ** _Review questions: What are your spring break plans? What do you think about Hermione deciding to take a chance on Draco- does he deserve it after walking out on her?_**

 **-potato.**


	20. If I Lay Here

_songs: stay/rihanna_

 _chasing cars/snow patrol_

 **Chapter Twenty: If I Lay Here**

* * *

Draco had only planned to leave the cottage for an hour, but an hour turned into a couple hours, a couple hours turned into an evening, and an evening turned into an entire night. He felt bad about leaving Hermione alone, but he couldn't bear another minute in that cottage before he imploded or exploded or experienced some painful combination of both.

First he owled Antonio and informed him of his theory on the attacks. Antonio informed him that the Aurors were already discussing a similar idea, and that if they discovered substantial proof that the idea could be true, Hermione's travels would have to be put on hold until they could find her a replacement.

After that he went to the closest bar he could find. At only seven o'clock in the evening, it was a sad sight: there were only two other men, one with a bushy beard that smelled of fish, and another with skin so frail it was hardly clinging to his gaunt face. He ordered a glass of scotch and finished it too quickly, then had another, and another, and another.

Soon enough he forgot all about Hermione. He forgot to feel guilty for leaving her all alone in the cottage in a foreign country without any clue of when or if he would return. He forgot he kissed her after professing how much he cared for her. He forgot about the way she looked pitifully at him as she begged to talk about it.

All he wanted was to pretend like it hadn't happened. It was obvious she didn't feel similarly, and he was a bloody fool for saying anything. He already knew where the conversation would go: she would say she didn't mean for him to think anything more of their friendship, that she was flattered, that she appreciated their friendship but couldn't imagine there be anything more. He was a Malfoy, after all, and without saying it outright, she would insinuate that she was _Hermione Granger_ —she was revered and treasured by the wizarding world. There were going to be dolls made in her likeness, books published about her bravery, and he nothing more than a stain on the timeline of wizarding history. He would tarnish her. She could do better, and he couldn't argue with that. He _wanted_ her to do better.

He sang drunken songs with the other sorry souls in the bar that night, buying drinks and cheers-ing to whatever misfortune brought the other men to their mutually depressing gathering place. He lived in blissful drunkenness until the bartender kicked them all out before twelve, banishing Draco to the cold, rainy night. He tried Apparating, but was too inebriated to do it properly. He settled for casting a weak shielding spell and walking back to cottage by foot. It wasn't a long walk, but he managed to get soaking wet on his way there anyway.

He momentarily considered not even going back, but something inside of him compelling him to return. He didn't want to hear her rejection, but there was a tension in his chest that wouldn't be relieved until he saw her safe and warm at the cottage. He would make sure she was okay, and then he would request a replacement in the morning and would leave all of this nonsense behind.

By the time he got back it was half past midnight. He opened the door hastily, eager to escape the rain, and clambered into the foyer. Droplets of water fell from his hair and onto the floor, but he was too drunk to care. He stumbled forward and began unbuttoning his soaked shirt.

"Draco?"

His fingers froze and he looked up—there she was, across the hall in the kitchen. Judging by the red marks on her cheeks and the way the left side of her hair was flattened against her head, she fell asleep at the table waiting for him. A vague amount of guilt spilled into his mind… she had been waiting for him.

"Are you drunk?" she asked.

"I told you I was getting a drink," he said. A shiver ran through his body—he needed to take his shirt off. His fingers struggled to finish unbuttoning his shirt, his fine motor skills compromised.

"Sit down, you're absolutely pissed," she said.

He scowled. "I'm not a sodding seventh-year student, I know my limits."

"You should still take a pepper-up potion. Sit down, I'll get one—"

"I don't want your potions." He finally got his shirt undone and quickly shimmied it off. Hermione shifted her gaze, clearly uncomfortable seeing him half-naked.

"Fine," she said. "I thought you might want one before we talk about what happened last night."

"I'm not in the best state to talk about that right now."

"And I don't care! I told you we were going to talk about it and _you_ made the decision to get plastered. It doesn't change anything. I still need to talk about it."

His head pounding and his stomach feeling a bit queasy, Draco slumped into one of the rigid wooden chairs, defeated. "Fine," he said sourly. "Then let's talk about it."

Hermione blinked. Clearly, she hadn't expected him to agree. "I don't want this to be awkward," she said slowly.

"Well, it's a bit late for that, isn't it?"

"Malfoy…"

Draco felt sick. The nervous look on her face spelled pity, clear as day. No, he decided, he couldn't bear to sit quietly and wait for her to politely decline his much-regretted advances. He had to scrape up whatever pride he had left and come out with his head held as high as possible. He was going to insist it was a mistake and then leave the next morning without ever having to admit the sincerity of what he told her twenty-four hours ago.

"Look, Granger," he said, trying to inject his words with as much poison as possible. "I made a mistake. What I told you wasn't out of genuine feelings for you. It was out of jealousy for what you and your stupid friends have. It has nothing to do with you in particular, and I wish you'd stop flattering yourself by believing otherwise."

She flinched—was that pain in her eyes? She had those big brown Bambi eyes, and it was as if he'd just shot her mother. And it was her stupid fault that he even knew who Bambi _was_. He looked away from her and continued. "What I told you was born out of being in close proximity to you for so long. Call it Stockholm syndrome."

She looked like he'd just slapped her across the face.

"Just forget about it, Granger." The alcohol was making his mind all fuzzy. He couldn't let her pitiful teary eyes affect him in his inebriated state. "I'm tired and I'll be asking for a replacement in the morning. Let's just pretend it never happened."

This suggestion didn't sit well with Hermione, who narrowed her previously sorrowful eyes and slammed a fist on the table. "No!"

He jerked backwards at the loud slam. "What?"

"You're lying," she accused, voice wavering. "You think I can't tell when you lie? I've spent the past month and a half practically glued to your side! I can tell when you're lying."

Why couldn't she leave it alone? What was it about her that compelled her to analyze every little thing until everything was disassembled and naked on the table? Was nothing allowed to be secret with her? Gods, he hated her.

But then he looked up to see her huffing at him, her cheeks flushed and her nose all scrunched up, and he couldn't hate her. He felt the same surge of desire that hit him whenever they argued. He was pretty sure that if this continued, he'd get a hard-on every time someone yelled at him.

"Don't you want to just let it go?" he pleaded, desperate for the argument to end there before he gave in and admitted something he'd regret. "Wouldn't it be easier if we just let it go?"

"No!" she yelled. "I want to talk about it!" Shit. This part was his favorite, when she got that stubborn glint in her eye that told him he was going to lose the argument, no matter how hard he tried.

"Does it matter why I said it?" he asked. "I just clarified that I _did not mean_ what I said and that you should forget about it."

"No," she seethed, standing and pointed an accusatory finger at him. "I think you're lying. I think you meant what you said and you're too much of a coward to admit it."

 _Ding ding ding._ Brightest witch of her age. He stood up as well, swaying slightly on the spot. He was too drunk for this. "It doesn't matter, Granger! Even if I did mean it, you obviously don't feel the same way!" Fuck. That wasn't what he was supposed to say.

Hermione's face softened. "You don't know that."

Heat surged through him. How dare she try and give him hope when he knew there was none. "You don't mean that. You and I could _never_ work. Look at who I am, and look at who you are."

He was inching towards her slowly, enjoying the half-frightened, half-determined expression on her face. The alcohol made the room feeling boiling hot, and he lifted his hand to push his hair out of his forehead, forgetting entirely about his Mark.

Then it happened. As he brought his arm up to eye-level, she saw it.

He had been so careful about keeping it covered constantly, and of course this had to be the moment he slipped up. Over the years the mark had faded to hardly a shadow, but it was still visible against his paper-pale skin. When she saw it, she sucked in her breath, eyes wide, trembling.

There it was—the reason it could never work. Infuriated and irrational, he jumped up and pressed her against the wall with his body, determined to prove his point. "See that?" he hissed. "I disgust you."

"No…" she whimpered, trying to keep her jaw square.

Seething, he grabbed her wrist with his left hand and pinned it above her head, pressing their forearms together, Dark Mark against Mudblood scar. Death Eater against Muggle-born. His skin burned where the two marks touched. "The war left scars on both of us that we didn't ask for," he whispered, so close he could feel her short, warm breaths on his neck. "But you still flinch when you see mine. And what's why I will never deserve to have you."

To Draco's surprise, his words made her harden rather than tremble. She narrowed her eyes, drew herself up as high as she could, and tore her arm away from his grasp. With that Granger-like stubbornness and determination he so worshipped, she cupped his chin firmly and looked him straight in the eye so fiercely he swore his pupils burned.

"That's not your choice to make," she said.

His knees went weak as he realized he'd lost the upper hand. "It has to be. You deserve—"

"You don't get to tell me what I deserve. It's my decision to make," she said forcefully. "You think I don't see what you're doing? You say you want to be like them, like Harry or Ron, because you think their brand of bravery is the golden standard. But if I wanted that Gryffindor nobility bullshit, I would have taken it. No, I want something different, Draco."

Her eyes were full of fire, his name sounded like music coming from her lips, and in that moment he hated her and loved her so much it threatened to explode at the seams of his skin. Was he delusional, was he imagining things? "What are you saying?" The question was hardly a whisper; he wondered if the words were strong enough to even make it to her ears, or if they got lost somewhere in the inches between them.

She leaned in and made sure every word was strong and clear. "I don't know if it's the right choice, or the logical one, or the reasonable one, but I'm learning to take chances. I'm learning to gamble on what might make me happy, even if it's absolutely mad. I'm taking a calculated risk. I _know_ you meant what you said last night, even if it defies all logic, and while I don't know if you'll hurt me or make me happier than I could imagine, I think I owe it to both of us to give you the opportunity. I'm choosing to let you show me what this could be. _I_ get to decide. _I_ get to make the choice. And goddamn it all to hell, Draco Malfoy, _it's you_."

He held his breath as he listened, his heart beating a wild, erratic melody against his chest. Her dark brown eyes looked up at him, full of fear and hope, and suddenly her hands were moving from his chin to around his neck and before he could open his mouth to argue, she was kissing him, her lips crashing hard against him. He was still for the briefest of moments, but the alcohol in his system and the fire in his belly were telling him to give in and he didn't have the will to fight it. His hands found their way to her hair and he tangled his fingers in it, pulling hard, trying to press as much of her against him as possible. This was nothing like the first time he kissed her—this was urgent, reckless, hard and fast and desperate.

He felt his teeth hit hers and suddenly she was nipping at his bottom lip and tracing the wound with her tongue. Merlin, she was million times better than he ever thought she would be. He held her against him like she was the very force upon which he depended for life. Her fingers were pressing into his neck, possibly bruising him but he didn't care. He tasted her; she was fresh water and he drank her in.

Then her legs were lifting off the ground, wrapping around his waist, pushing every inch of her body into his. He felt her warmth against his groin and groaned into her mouth before grabbing her up by the arse and carrying her into her bedroom, not once breaking his lips away from hers. She was so warm, so _indescribably_ warm, and he never wanted to let her go again.

She was taking a chance on him.

Him.

 _Fuck_.

Then he was lying on his back on her bed and she was on top of him, straddling him, and he couldn't remember seeing anything quite so absolutely, unquestionably, perfectly beautiful. Her lips were swollen from where he had sucked and nipped, her cheeks were flushed, her pupils were dilated, her hair fell wild like a halo around her face. The top of her shirt was unbuttoned and he could see her breasts heaving up and down as she tried to catch her breath.

He swore he could feel his heart about to beat out of his chest. He wanted to touch every inch of her, explore and commit to memory every dip and crevice until he could recite the lines of her skin from memory.

She leaned down to kiss him again and he felt her small hands reach down to his pant zipper, finally snapping him out of the haze. Without thinking, he put out his palm and stopped her.

"What?" she whispered, her lips grazing his.

He cradled her face again and kissed her slowly, softly. Fuck, he was drunk, on alcohol or on her he couldn't tell.

He couldn't let it happen like this. Not when he was drunk and she was likely deliriously tired, not after all the horrible things he'd said to her.

No, he couldn't let it happen _at all_. What happened to self-control? What happened to her getting what she deserved?

He let go of her lips and she frowned, searching his face for answers. She grasped the side of his face gently and stroked his eyebrow with her thumb.

"It's my choice," she whispered. "It's okay."

"I know," he whispered raggedly. He didn't want to take her, but he didn't want to cast her away, either. It wasn't the right time, she deserved different than this rage and alcohol-induced lust. He couldn't do it now when he wasn't in his right state of mind. "But could you..." his voice broke. "Just lay here with me. Stay with me. Please?"

Her eyes burned into his, speckled brown on dark gray, and ever the sharp witch, he could see she understood. She nodded, tracing his cheek with her thumb again. He lowered her until her back was cradled onto his bare chest, relishing in her blanket-like warmth. He wrapped one arm around her and tucked some loose curls behind her ear before leaning in and kissing her earlobe softly. He heard her let out a small contented sigh and he almost lost control again right then and there. It took every fiber of control in his body to stop himself from climbing atop her and pressing himself into her again.

Instead, he snaked his arm down the edge of her arm and around her stomach. She reached out, grabbed his arm, and traced his Mark with a touch so light he could swear he was dreaming it. Shamefully he tried to jerk his arm away, but she held on tight. She brought the back of his fingers up to her lips, kissed them lightly, and then she was sighing deeply and he was holding her so close he swore the heat from her skin was going to burn him alive as they lay there together: a perfect, drunken, broken mess.

* * *

He woke up early in the morning, but kept his eyes shut tight. _Pain_. The first thing he felt was his dry mouth and a pounding headache. His stomach turned and gurgled, upset that the only thing he'd fed it in the past twelve hours was alcohol and peanuts.

 _You're an idiot,_ he told himself.

Eyes still closed, he moved to get up to relieve his bladder and get himself a glass of water. But then… his arm. His arm was stuck.

Granger.

 _Holy shit._ His eyes snapped open and there she was: her unusually warm body pressed up against him, his arm held tight in her grasp. It all came back to him: her lips, her skin, her eyes, her body. He could have had her and he didn't take the opportunity.

 _You're an idiot_ , he repeated.

Now what? He turned her down and asked for her to lie down and literally sleep with him instead, clothes still on. He wanted her but he knew he couldn't have her, even if she wanted him back. She said it was her choice, but it could he let her make that decision? What if he was the wrong choice? He knew once she woke up she'd want to talk over what had happened, what it meant, analyze everything he said and did in his drunken state. He really didn't want to have that conversation.

He sighed into her bush of hair and slowly began wriggling his arm away from her. Eventually he stole his hand back and traced her bare shoulder with his index finger- she had so many moles and freckles he'd never noticed before. The baby hairs on her neck stood up straight in the cold morning air and he brushed them back down with his thumb. There were so many small parts about her he wanted to memorize: the curve of her back, hips, and breasts, the way she sighed when she breathed in deep, the goosebumps that dotted her skin when he touched her. He felt himself grow hard and he shuffled backwards so she wouldn't feel it.

He didn't deserve her, but Merlin, did he want her so badly. He wanted to climb on top of her and claim her as his in every conceivable way. He wanted to bite and suck at her skin until she was marked as his, he wanted to claw at her back and hold her close, he wanted to feel her around him. Maybe it was just lust, maybe it was love, maybe it was insanity, but he didn't care either way. He just knew he wanted her.

He propped himself up to look at her face. She was an entirely ungraceful sleeper: her hair was splayed about like a lion's mane, her mouth was hanging open, and her nose crinkled up every time she breathed in. He smirked. Slowly, he reached out to tuck her hair behind her ear.

She stirred awake the moment he touched her ear. "Wha…" Her voice was groggy, confused.

"Granger?" he whispered.

"What time… what…" She blinked a few times and then a look of realization dawned on her. She was remembering. "Malfoy."

"Hi," was all he managed to say as he waited for her reaction to him being in bed with her.

Her lips curved into a small, sleepy smile and he breathed a sigh of relief. "What time is it?"

"Early. Sorry, I didn't mean to wake you-"

"It's okay."

His heart was beating so fast it hurt. What came now? Did he take the risk of breaking her apart and let her in? Did he accept that she chose him and finally do away with the martyr complex that had been beaten into him during his Auror training?

Before he could open his mouth to speak, there was a loud crack from the kitchen that made them both jump in fright.

"HERMIONE!"

Hermione snapped up and blinked rapidly. "Is that Ron?"

Draco groaned. _Weasley_.

" _Hermione_!" he yelled again. Draco frowned—his voice was desperate and pained. What in hell was Weasley doing here so early in the morning without warning?

Hermione jumped out of bed and quickly began buttoning up the top of her shirt. She ran out of the room without any pants on and Draco felt that monster of jealousy burning in his chest again, even though Weasley had probably seen her naked hundreds of times.

"Ron, what are you doing here?" he heard her ask.

"They're coming. We're leaving now- you're coming with me."

Draco frowned. Weasley's tone was urgent. He jumped out of bed, pulled on a sweater and pants, and joined the other two in the kitchen, where Hermione was frowning at Ron. "What's happening?" he asked.

Ron turned to Draco, in no mood to argue. "They know where she is and they'll be here in less than five minutes. She's coming with me- _no arguing_ \- and you're going to stay here."

Hermione threw a hand up. "Wait a moment, Ron. Explain what's happening."

"I don't have time to explain, Hermione! You need to come with me _now_."

"She's not going anywhere without me," Draco growled. "I'm in charge of her safety."

"You were assigned to her temporarily by the Ministry," Ron hissed, growing even more impatient. "You are an Auror- _in-training_. We have a whole team of people who will be able to keep her safe back in England who are a thousand times more qualified than you."

Draco felt his stomach bubble with acid-like rage; he forced himself to bite back the thousand spiteful words dancing on his tongue. She was safe with him! He wouldn't let her anywhere out of his sight, not for a split second, if she was going to be harmed.

"Ron, are you sure they're coming? No one knows I'm here, and I don't think they want to hurt me anyway—did Harry tell you our theory?"

"There's no time to think about this!" he yelled. "We just intercepted an owl that had nothing but the address of this cottage and a time stamp for _five minutes from now_ written on it. They must've tracked you, or spotted you, or… or someone might have tipped them off!" He glanced at Draco, just for a moment, but long enough for Hermione to notice.

"He wouldn't do that," she said coldly.

"I didn't say-"

Draco felt weary. If Weasley was right and they were coming, it was more important for Hermione to leave than to win the argument. "Take her," he said.

"What?" Hermione cried indignantly.

"Keep her safe, Weasley."

Ron nodded curtly. "Good."

"I'm not your property to trade!" Hermione said, arms crossed.

Draco took a step towards her and stared into her fiery brown eyes. "Go with him," he said. "Keep yourself safe."

Hermione searched his eyes for a moment in anger, but finding nothing but sincerity, finally relented. "Fine."

"You'll stay here and capture anyone you can," Ron said to Draco. "Backup will be here in exactly ten minutes. We don't want to send them early in case the attackers are watching."

Draco nodded. "And then?"

Ron shook his head. "No time to think about that. My job is to take her out of here."

Hermione looked wildly from Ron to Draco. "But he… that's not safe…"

"Granger, it's my job."

She reached out and grabbed his hand, ignoring Ron's confused expression. She gave him a gentle squeeze and he felt fire ignite his veins and travel like molten lava down to his toes. "Don't die, okay?"

So this is what it felt like to be the good guy. This is what it was like to choose someone else over yourself, to love someone enough to put yourself in danger—it was paralyzing and bone-chilling and made him want to piss his pants, and yet it was undeniably right. He squeezed her back and tried to smirk. "Don't be dramatic, Granger."

As Ron pulled her into the fireplace, he wanted to tell her that this was just a brief interruption and they would go back to spending every waking hour together soon. But he knew it wasn't true: they had come for her, and this was it. He missed his chance.

He felt a knife tear through his chest at the realization. But then the door blasted open and a white hooded man was standing in the foyer, his wand pointed straight at Draco's heart.

" _Avada Kedavra_!"

* * *

 **A/N: Who's the worst? I am, I know! So many cliffhangers. But hey, y'all- THEY DID IT. THEY DUN KISSED AND STUFF AWW. I think this was the first scene I wrote (Draco coming back and their argument leading up to the kiss) It's twice as dramatic with chasing cars playing, too! This is the chapter I've been most excited to post so I'm so glad it's here! Leave me a review to read when I finally get internet again (:**

 **(Also I normally reply to all reviews but I can't really do that with just my phone on limited wifi so just know I see them & appreciate you all so much!) **

_**Review question: What do you think about Draco waiting to sleep with her? Noble/kind, or stupid?**_

 ** _-_ potato _._**


	21. Home

songs: i don't wanna live forever/taylor swift & zayn

pieces/andrew belle

 **Chapter Twenty-One: Home**

* * *

Eight minutes ago she'd been laying in bed with Draco Malfoy, half-naked, her skin shivering slightly in the cool air as he traced patterns on her shoulder and she pretended to still be asleep.

Now she was being dragged through the Floo and deposited into the Ministry in such a blur that if it were not for the small bruises decorating her collarbone, she would've believed it had all been a dream.

The moment Hermione's feet touched the cold marble floor of the Ministry, her eyes filled with tears, half from fear and half from shock. She clutched Ron's arm to keep herself from stumbling. Immediately a half dozen Aurors crowded around her, blocking her from seeing what room they were even in.

"What's going on?" she cried.

One of the Aurors pushed himself through the crowd- it was Harry, his familiar face bringing her brief comfort. "Hermione, we have to transport you."

"What's happening?"

"We breached their communication. Their next target is Malfoy, and we think we know who's behind all of this."

Hermione's blood ran cold. "You do?"

"I'll tell you more in a moment." Harry grasped her arm and then she was being torn through the air, landing in the same Ministry briefing room she had been at just a month and a half ago. The cold air drew goosebumps from her naked legs, but terror kept her from caring.

"Harry, talk to me!"

Harry sighed. "Two weeks ago, in exchange for an abbreviated sentence, Trentin Rewall gave us an anonymous contact. We sent a mole, who was stationed outside the house the contact operated out of. We've been intercepting all of the owls coming from the area and tracing their origins. Most of them have been useless but this morning we intercepted one indicating an attack on Malfoy. We have agents on their way there now. According to our mole, they call themselves the White Hats. We don't know much, but we think they're an international group who have made it their mission to exact revenge on everyone who was associated with Voldemort's inner circle."

Hermione's head was spinning and she thought she might be sick. Draco had been right. "We were right..." she whispered. "Malfoy figured this all out awhile back, we just didn't have the information to prove it. I told Ginny about this last night—did she tell you what I said?"

Harry shook his head. "We've been working so hard. I haven't seen Ginny for almost two days now. You have?"

"It's a long story," she said shakily. "So he was right… these people are on our side."

"No," said Harry firmly. "Anyone doing what they're doing isn't on our side. They're terrorists. They think the law didn't punish Voldemort's associates enough and now they've taken it upon themselves to fill in the gaps. An eye for an eye."

Hermione fell back onto one of the granite chairs dazedly. "Draco's back at the cottage. Tell me he'll be okay."

The spectacled man grimaced. "Hermione, I don't want to overstep my boundaries or suggest that something that may not be true. But the way these people operate is specific in nature. They don't kill the person they think is guilty, they kill everyone that person cares for. After those articles about you and Malfoy, and because you've spend so much time together recently, they think he cares for you. They probably wanted to kill you before they even touched him."

"So you should have taken both of us!" Hermione shrieked.

Harry looked at her like she was insane. "We don't believe they'll lay a finger on him until they've killed you first. They already… they got to his mother. They want him to know what it feels like. The loss."

Hermione blanched. "Narcissa's dead?"

"Not yet. But she's on her way there."

Hermione buried her forehead into her hands and pinched her brow. There were no tears, she was too shocked. "I have to go back. We have to make sure he's okay."

"Backup will be there soon."

"I have to see him."

Harry wrapped an arm around his friend and drew her head into his chest. "I know you want to make sure he's okay. I know you would never want to admit it, but I can tell you've grown to see him as a friend over the past month and a half."

Hermione thought back to just a few hours ago, when Draco had been pressed against her back. She remembered his eyes as he examined her skin, full of wonder and curiosity, like a child exploring a new land. Yes, she had grown to see him as a friend. And a little more.

"But we're taking him somewhere else," Harry continued.

"What? Where?"

"One of our safe houses. We have the Zabini family, the Nott family, and the Parkinson family all in their own safe houses for the time being."

Hermione scoffed at him. The Aurors owned several properties that they rotated use of as safe houses, but with enough effort they could be tracked down. Maintaining permanent powerful wards over the number of houses they owned would take more manpower and money than the Ministry had available to them.

"He won't be safe there. Are you planning on sending me there, too?"

"Of course not! You'll be staying with Ginny and me."

Hermione gaped in shock. "You cannot be serious! You're going to keep me safe and sound at Grimmauld Place, but you're going to send him off to some shoddy safe house?"

"Hermione-"

"Don't argue with me, Harry Potter!" Hermione knew Harry was deeply confused about her concern for Draco, but she figured he would chalk it up to shock or hysteria. It really didn't matter anymore what her friend thought, as long as Malfoy was safe. "I have to know he's okay."

"Hermione, I am too damned tired for this. Malfoy has a safe place to go, I have a pregnant wife to take care of, and my house is not a bloody refugee camp."

"You're letting _me_ stay," she said stubbornly.

Harry threw his hands up. "You're one of my best friends! I love you. I would do anything for you."

"Well Malfoy's my- he's my-" Hermione spluttered. "He's my friend," she finished weakly.

Harry took off his glasses and rubbed his tired eyes. He slumped into the chair beside his friend and sighed. "Hermione, what's going on between you and Malfoy?"

She fidgeted. "He's my friend," she repeated. "I spent a month and a half with only him as company. You don't spend that much time with a person without growing attached."

"But this is Malfoy we're talking about. I would've thought you'd need more than six weeks to even trust him again, let alone like him."

Hermione sighed. Two months ago, she would have thought the exact same thing. But she was surprising herself every day with things she never would've expected from herself. "Harry…"

The raven-haired man pinched his forehead with his fingers. "Hermione, you and Malfoy aren't… You're not…"

Hermione was silent.

"No," said Harry fearfully.

"It's not—" she tried.

" _No_."

"Harry, it's not anything real, not yet! You know I'm too careful for something like that. But I won't lie to you, I… I care for him. He's tried so hard to prove himself. He's really not the same person anymore."

Harry was shaking his head so vigorously she thought it might fly clean off. "How could you be so naive, Hermione?"

Hermione froze, her spine rigidly straight. "Don't you judge me, Harry Potter."

"What am I supposed to think?"

"You're supposed to trust me as your friend," she said sternly. "You saw how he was when we had dinner. He's a decent person now, and I just want to make sure he's safe. Look me straight in the eye and tell me he'll be just as safe in one of those houses as he would be here."

Harry folded his hands in his lap. "Of course he wouldn't."

"Which is why you're keeping me at Grimmauld Place."

"Yes."

Hermione reached out across the table to touch her friend's arm. She could see Harry's logical side battling with his hero complex. In a surprisingly Slytherin move, she decided to appeal to his heroic side. "Harry, if you send him to one of those houses, you could send him to his death. This is a man who's joined the Aurors, for Christ's sake. And if he died because of this… Harry, you know I'll always love you, but I would be devastated."

She saw his urge to protect overcome all logic and he looked up at her, his bright green eyes defeated. "We'd have to put up extra wards. He'll need to relinquish his wand upon entrance, and he can't ever leave the property or be there alone."

Hermione felt relief flood over her and she nodded gratefully. "Thank you so much, Harry. You have no idea how much this means to me."

"He's your responsibility, though. And if he makes one wrong move—if he sets one toe out of line—he's out. I'll put him on the sodding street, I don't care."

"Of course," she swore, already counting in her head the words she would have to ban from Draco's vocabulary. "But I'm not leaving here until I know he's safe."

Harry sighed, then pushed himself up and nodded. "I'll go check in with the others. You can stay here until I have more information."

Another chill tickled her legs and she finally took real notice of her half-nakedness. "Do you think you could bring me a pair of pants while you're at it?"

Harry blushed slightly. "Right. Didn't want to bring that up until you did."

She smiled. As Harry was about to leave, she stopped him again. "Oh, and one more thing—when he comes back, do you think… Could I be the one to tell him about his mother?

The look he gave her was of utter surprise and concern—she knew he could tell then and there that she had fallen in deep. "Of course you can."

* * *

Draco ducked to the side and behind the staircase as a jet of green light passed over his shoulder. He cursed under his breath- they were going for the kill. Okay, then. Two could play at that game.

"Don't fucking kill him, idiot!" he heard a woman's voice yell. "Get the girl first!"

 _Hermione_. Thank Merlin Weasley had taken her away.

Draco inched his way around the banister and pointed his wand. Wordlessly, he disarmed the first wizard who had sent the killing curse and then tried to stun them both. The man fell to the ground but the woman dodged.

"Oh, we're doing silent magic, are we?" she taunted. Draco was reminded of his Aunt Bellatrix and felt a great surge to kill swell up in him. He had to remind himself of the oath he swore.

 _An Auror does not harm for any purpose other than self-defense._

Would killing her qualify as self-defense? Funnily enough, he would be a thousand times more likely to kill in Granger-defense than self-defense. But now that it was just him in the house, he'd be satisfied with just stunning and arresting the woman.

"Come on out, you nasty Death Eater," she taunted. Draco's blood boiled as he turned the corner to see the back of her white cape twirl around as she went into the kitchen to look for him. He snuck up behind her quietly, checking over his back to make sure no one else was coming in through the front door.

"Not in the kitchen?" she sang. "Where did you go?"

It would be a game of cat and mouse if he kept creeping from one room to another. Wand raised and a million curses on his tongue, he turned the corner and pointed straight at her. "Sectumsempra!"

Since the day Potter had sliced his chest open with the Sectumsempra curse, Draco made it a priority to master the spell himself. He had gotten quite good at it: he could cut deep enough that the victim lost enough blood to pass out, but not die right away so they could be kept for questioning.

Unfortunately, the woman threw up a thick shield, one much stronger than the typical Protego, which Draco's curse would have sliced through. She was experienced. Brow furrowed, Draco sent another stream of wordless curses, which she ducked to avoid.

"That the best you got?" she laughed. Her face was covered with a white mask, but he could see long blonde hair swinging behind her. He could tell by her voice and agility that she was young, probably not much older than he.

"Who are you?" he asked.

Instead of an answer, she threw a stream of fire at him, which he turned to water midair. She hissed and exploded the granite countertop and he only barely turned the shards into rubber before they hit him in the face and chest. Damn, she really was good. He aimed his wand across the kitchen, drawing some knives up up from where they were drying by the sink, and sent them flying at her. She managed to toss all but one aside, which lodged in her wand arm and caused her to shriek in pain.

Not wasting any time, Draco took the opportunity to charm chains around her. " _Expelliarmus_!" Her wand whizzed through the air into his waiting hand.

"Damn, Malfoy, you really don't waste any time, do you?"

Draco spun around with his wand out, only to see the familiar face of Antonio. He breathed a sigh of relief. "About time you got here."

Antonio surveyed the room. "You got both of them?"

"On my own."

"You left quite a mess," he criticized.

"Bugger off."

The man grinned and clapped Draco on the shoulder. "Good work, mate. We'll take 'em back and get them into questioning immediately."

A stream of Aurors were now entering the kitchen, bagging evidence and scanning the room for curses or wards. One tried to yank at the mask on the woman's face, but it was charmed stuck. She spat in the Auror's eye and hissed. "You bloody fools. You're all traitors. Don't you see what he is? Who he is? Lift up his sleeve and you'll see."

Draco turned away before he could get angry enough to cast another curse at the bitch. Antonio motioned towards the fireplace. "You're coming back with me. We need a final report."

"Where's Granger? I need to see her."

"She's back at the Ministry. You can calm down now, Malfoy, she's not your problem anymore. We've got her."

"She was never a problem," Draco said coldly, and Antonio frowned.

"Okay, mate. Didn't mean anything by it."

Antonio grabbed some Floo powder but Draco didn't follow suit. "I'm not going anywhere until you swear to me I get to see her and make sure she's okay."

"I can't make any promises, but I'll ask Harry for you."

Draco nodded. "Okay." The Floo sucked him in and spat him out in the Auror headquarters. He looked around frantically for Hermione, despite knowing full well that they had probably taken her into another room. Regina pulled him aside as Antonio left to report back to his superior.

"What happened?" she asked.

"There were two of them there. One… one tried to kill me, and the other said to find Granger first."

Regina pursed her lips. "Just as we expected."

"Tell me what you know," he said. "Where's Granger? What do they want from her?"

The woman scoffed. "You're not nearly high enough on the security clearance levels to be privy to that information."

Draco gathered himself up, taking full advantage of the few inches he had on Regina. In any other situation he would be "yes ma'am"-ing and submitting to his position as a trainee, but adrenaline was making him brave and he frankly didn't give a rat's ass what Regina thought of him anymore. "Listen to me," he said coldly. "You assigned me to Granger, and it was my one and only job to protect her for the past six weeks. And I did a damn good job. I never let her out of my sight. I watched over her even when she called me a Death Eater and told me I should be dead. I stopped her from destroying the house we were staying at when she was having nightmares. Then one morning Weasley barges in, takes her away, suddenly there are people in capes shouting Avada at me, and _I'm not privy to your information_?"

The room went silent. The Aurors, who had been buzzing about trying to organize themselves in the aftermath of the attack, all stopped to stare at Draco and Regina, eyes bugged at his public display of insubordination.

"I… I…" Regina spluttered.

Antonio stepped forward. "Let me take him to Harry."

She smoothed out her skirt as she tried to regain her posture. "Good. Take him to Mr. Potter and be sure to include the details of his… outburst."

Draco took several deep breaths, trying to keep himself from yelling any more. Antonio grabbed his arm and dragged him out into the hallway across from the briefing room.

"What the hell, Malfoy?"

The blond man wasn't thinking straight, his only mission was to make sure Hermione was okay. That was his job, that was his one and only job, to make sure she was safe. "I need to see her."

Antonio heard the desperation in his coworker's plea and sighed. "Harry's in there," he said, pointing at the briefing room. "Let me check with him."

Draco nodded. He sunk to the floor, holding his head in between his knees. Moments later, a raven-haired man with round spectacles was looking down on him. "Malfoy?"

"Is she here?"

"She's fine." he said somberly.

"Let me see her."

"You don't give the orders-"

"Potter, please let me see her," he asked, his voice breaking.

A strange expression of realization dawned on Harry's face, followed by disgust and confusion. Draco knew what he was thinking, but he didn't care.

"She's not here anymore, Malfoy," he said. "She's somewhere safe, don't worry."

Draco felt nauseous. What if this was it? Would he ever see her again?

"I'll take you to see her once you finish up here," Harry continued, and the nausea vanished. "You need to fill out some incident reports, do a formal interview—"

"Then let's bloody get to it," Draco said fiercely, not caring for a second that Potter was staring at him like he'd grown an extra head.

* * *

After giving an incident report so thorough he felt a personally violated by the end of it, Draco was left alone in one of the Ministry interrogation rooms. The walls were black and charmed to feel as if they were closing in on you if you stared at them for too long. He kept his gaze focused on the shiny metal table he was seated at. Just a few years ago he had been sitting at one of these tables, undergoing questioning about his involvement with the Death Eaters. Never did he imagine he would be back here again under such different circumstances.

After a moment the door slid open and Regina stepped in with a notebook in her hand. She walked with less importance than usual, obviously still stinging from being yelled at. She tossed the notebook onto the table and Draco recognized Hermione's handwriting on the lined pages. There was a list of names, some of them crossed out, others circled.

"We found this in the cottage kitchen," she said as he pulled up a chair. "Is it yours?"

"No. Granger's."

"Do you know what it is?"

He nodded mutely as he traced the words she inscribed: _Neville Longbottom. Justin Finch-Fletchley. Mary Clearwater. Trevor Bulstrode. Lavender Brown. Percy Weasley. Wesley Chambers. Dennis Creevey._ He wondered when she'd written the list.

"Care to explain?"

Draco took a deep breath. "A few weeks ago I started to suspect that the attacks weren't targeted at Potter and his friends. I shared my ideas with Granger and she must have been compiling a list of names."

Regina took back the notepad and read over it again, her brows creased. "We've already investigated some of these people on a superficial level. Do you know what the circles mean?"

"Probably means those people are more likely to be a suspect."

"We dismissed most of the circled names as possibilities ages ago. What makes her think they're possible suspects?"

Draco shrugged. "I can't possibility begin to guess what goes on in the mind of Hermione Granger. But I would venture to guess she knows much more about these people on a personal level than you do."

Regina nodded primly. "Would it be your recommendation that we take her suggestions seriously?"

"It would."

"You haven't seen her exhibit any strange or erratic behavior? Anything that would discount her testimony?"

"No. She's a model of sanity, as well as the brightest witch I've met, present company included."

Regina's eyebrows creased. "You would do well to remember your place here, Mr. Malfoy. Any more slip-ups and you will be removed from the program."

In all the chaos of the past week, Draco almost forgot the real reason he was even travelling with Hermione—to become an Auror. He knew it wasn't the right time to ask, but he wondered if this was finally the end. Was his training over? Was he accepted? The idea didn't make him as excited as he thought it would.

"Some of the others are gathering your belongings from the cottage and bringing them over," Regina continued. "You'll wait here until everything is settled and then you'll be transported to a safe house."

He opened his mouth to ask where he was headed, but closed it again promptly under her sharp glare. Potter told him he would see Granger. Or had he lied just to get him to cooperate?

Regina closed the door behind her, her heels clacking deafeningly against the floor as she walked away. He lowered his forehead to rest against the cold metal table and closed his eyes—if he focused hard enough, he could feel her skin under his fingertips, her breath on the arm he wrapped around her shoulder. She was going to stay with Potter, where she would probably regain her sanity and remember what it was like to be around decent human beings, and he would go to live alone in a safe house and forget what it was like to pretend he was a good man.

He remembered how he told himself that his feelings for her would disappear once he got away from her physically, once he had space to refocus and remember who he was. But sitting there alone in the room, he chuckled coldly at how wrong he had been. A person doesn't disappear from your soul when they disappear from your life. The parts of you they rewired are still irreversibly changed; the only difference is that the space inside of you they nestled themself into is now achingly empty.

* * *

Much to Draco's surprise, it wasn't Regina who finally came to fetch him from the questioning room, but Harry. The man's shoulders were sagging and his eyes were ringed in dark circles.

"Potter?"

"Come with me," he said tiredly. In one hand he was carrying Draco's trunk.

"Those my things?"

Harry shoved the trunk into the other man's chest. "Yes. Take it, please, the bloody thing weighs a ton."

Draco followed him past the briefing room and into the elevator. "Where are they placing me? Nottingham?"

Harry let out a deep sigh and pressed the button for the main lobby. "You're coming home with me."

"Excuse me?" Draco practically choked.

"You owe Hermione a million favors," Harry muttered.

He blinked, trying to understand. "I'm staying… With you? And with Granger?"

Without warning, Harry drew his wand and held it up to Draco's chest threateningly. "Yes, and before you get any ideas, I've warded the damn place to hell and back."

Draco took a deep breath and tried to put on a nice face. "Potter, I don't have any malicious intent here."

To his surprise, Harry slumped his shoulders and shook his head wearily. "I'm sorry. I'm tired, on edge. My best friend was threatened today and I almost didn't see it coming." He held out an open palm and sighed. "You will have to hand over your wand, of course—"

"What?"

Harry sighed impatiently. "Do you want to see Hermione or not?"

"Don't patronize me, Potter."

"You'll do as I ask. If you want to stay with us and see her, you need to hand over the wand."

Draco painfully swallowed his pride and removed his wand from his pocket. "Take it," he said quietly.

Harry looked up and down the pale man suspiciously. "Fucking hell. You've got it bad for her, don't you?"

Draco didn't answer, just stared down at his feet with a half-hearted scowl.

The elevator reached the lobby floor where the Floo exits were. The elevator doors opened and he saw the same fireplaces he used to use every evening to go home after work. At five o'clock he would finish up at his desk, pack up, and head back to his house, a free man, an independent man. This time, however, he was following Harry Potter to be a prisoner in his house, wandless and at the mercy of his former enemy. He followed Harry out of the elevator and wondered for a brief moment why in the hell he was doing this. He could take care of himself at a safe house, he didn't need to be babysat by Potter.

Then an image of her flashed in his mind's eye: smiling up at him in bed, her brown eyes twinkling. He was doing it for her, because _she_ was home now. He felt a twang in his heart that he'd never experienced before, and he realized quite suddenly that she was his weakness, his Achilles heel.

Bloody fucking shit. He loved her.

* * *

 **A/N: So the next chapter is one that I skipped writing because I didn't want to deal with it at the time and now it's just a half-blank document... So now I have to buckle down and finish it and it might be another week before I can update again. Sorry! I appreciate how patient y'all have been though (: Life is crazy, you know how it goes.**

 **-potato.**


	22. Not a Victory March

_songs: hallelujah (cover)/pentatonix_

 **Chapter Twenty-Two: Not a Victory March**

* * *

"Tell me every detail of what happened from the moment you left here yesterday to now."

Ginny was scampering to and fro in the kitchen of Grimmauld Place, trying to scrape together a decent meal for her friend, looking amusingly like the mother she always swore she would never to turn into. Hermione was sitting at the kitchen table with a blanket draped around her shoulders, nursing a too-hot cup of tea. After their talk at the Ministry, Harry had deposited her in the living room of Grimmauld Place without so much as a word of explanation to his wife before disappearing back to the Ministry to wait for Draco to finish his interview.

Slowly, she tried to piece together the events of the previous evening in the correct order for her friend: how she got home to the cottage, waited for Draco, fell asleep, and woke up sometime in the early morning when he stormed back in. She described how they fought and she made the decision to give him a chance—"Oh, my," Ginny interjected—and they ended up in bed together.

"So you slept with him?"

"No," Hermione said softly. "It felt like it was heading there, but then he looked down at me with this… this pure terror in his eyes, like he was going to hurt me or like he was going to get hurt. And he asked me to just sleep there with him. Clothes on."

"How strange."

"At first I thought he meant that he really wasn't attracted to me, and I was so embarrassed…"

"What changed your mind?"

Hermione blushed and stared down at her tea. "Well, he sort of cradled me from behind and I could feel… It's sort of difficult to ignore…"

Ginny grinned, knowing exactly what her prudish friend was hinting at. "I told you. I could tell during dinner the other day that he had… _physical_ feelings for you."

Hermione blushed and fidgeted in embarrassment. "Well, we fell asleep after that and then sometime in the morning Ron barged into the cottage calling for me. He told me they received information suggesting the attackers—they're called the White Hats, apparently—were coming to the cottage for me. He took me back to the Ministry and left Draco to face them by himself."

"And he's all right?"

"I would be a _much_ bigger mess if he wasn't," Hermione said, trying at a laugh but ending up with more of a sigh. "Harry told me he came back fine but that he needed to do an incident report and an interview before he could come here. He explained that our theory was right—they're going after people they believe former Death Eaters care about, and apparently they believed Draco cares for me."

"I'm not surprised," said Ginny as she brought Hermione a plate of all the food she could find: a slice of melon, a croissant, some creamy spread, and a small pile of salted nuts. "I'm sorry, I've been ordering in every day," she explained.

Hermione chuckled. "It's fine, I'm not even that hungry."

"Anyway, I can see where they might get the idea Malfoy cares about you, especially after all of those articles."

Hermione blanched. "All? I thought it was just the one."

Ginny frowned. "No, there were several, apparently. I don't read those gossip rags, but a few of the Harpy girls asked me if the rumors were true about you and Malfoy. According to them, there were several photos of you in different places—France, Spain, America… I thought you knew. I didn't think it was such a big deal anyway—you remember last year when they spread a rumor that I was actually a man in woman's clothing?"

Hermione's stomach turned over. "I had no clue there were so many articles. That makes sense, then, why they would assume he would miss me."

"They aren't wrong, though, are they?" Ginny asked with a smirk. Hermione blushed even redder.

"I suppose not. And now Harry said we're both going to be staying with you… I'm so sorry about that, by the way. I hope we won't be a nuisance."

"Oh, please," Ginny snorted. "It gets so boring here all by myself, especially when I can't get out and do the things I used to. I can't even drink, and that's what I used to do when I was bored."

Hermione shook her head at her friend and laughed. "That's so unhealthy, Ginny."

"Eh, I'm young," she said with a dismissive wave of the hand. "My liver has the regenerative power of a phoenix."

Hermione picked at her croissant nervously. "But you trust him, right? To stay here?"

"I don't know him enough to trust him, but I trust _you_. And I know you would never do anything to put your best friends and their unborn child in danger." The redhead said these words deliberately, looking straight into her friend's eyes.

"Of course I wouldn't. But I would never want to put you in an uncomfortable situation, or make you feel uneasy—"

Ginny huffed exasperatedly. "Hermione, I'm married to Harry-fucking-Potter. Life is never comfortable and easy when your husband is constantly trying to martyr himself."

Hermione breathed a short laugh. "That's true." Then she bowed her head again and sighed. "His mother is near dead, did you know? She was part of the attack. And when he gets here, I'm just supposed… I'm supposed to tell him his own mother's going to die. How am I going to do something like that?"

Ginny clasped a warm, comforting hand over her friend's and squeezed. "Don't worry about that right now. Just be happy you're both alive, and focus on that. We'll talk to Harry when he gets back."

* * *

After relinquishing his wand, Draco was taken by Potter through the Ministy Floo and deposited into a warm living room painted a faint beige color and decorated with various colorful odds and ends.

"Hermione? Ginny?" Harry called out.

Draco drank in the room curiously, wondering where the Potters' house was located. It was obviously a large house—he could see an expansive foyer and drawing room around the corner. Putting the tacky décor aside, it had all the makings of a traditional upper-class, pureblood home.

On the fireplace mantle, Draco saw several framed photos: Harry and Ginny on their wedding day, each grinning stupidly at one other; Harry with a small boy whose hair kept changing color; Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Ginny by the ocean, each of them laughing wildly. Draco felt a pang of jealousy; it was rare that he got to see Hermione laugh like that.

" _Malfoy_ ," someone breathed from behind him.

He turned around, and there she was, wearing a pullover sweater and a pair of jeans. Muscles in his shoulders and neck that he hadn't realized were tense suddenly relaxed. He didn't smile, but his insides were singing. She ran to embrace him tightly, neither caring that Harry was in the room. She smelled of home and felt like comfort.

"Granger," he murmured against her hair.

"You're alive," he felt her sob into his neck.

"I am," he said. "The parade will have to wait." She laughed, remembering their duel in Madrid, which now felt like it was years ago. Harry watched over them like a strict father, his arms crossed.

"I suppose I owe you a thank-you for ensuring my safety," Draco whispered.

She let him go and grinned softly. "You do."

Harry coughed uncomfortably and both parties looked over at him. "I'll, um… I'll go over to say hi to Ginny. I think Hermione has a few things to discuss with you."

Hermione's smile vanished and was replaced by worry. Draco frowned. "What is it?"

"You should sit down," she said gently.

"Granger, what happened?"

She shifted from foot to foot nervously. "It's your mother."

He felt the blood leave his face, leaving his cheeks numb and tingly. "What happened." It was more of a statement than a question, as if he already knew what was to follow.

"She…" Hermione's eyes filled with tears, and for a moment he pitied her more than himself. "They got to her."

Bile filled his throat and he clenched his jaw hard to keep himself from retching. He stumbled back, looking for something to lean against.

"She's not dead, but she's close to it."

"Tell me the details," he requested. His entire body was numb.

"Draco—"

"I want to know," he said firmly.

Tears slipped silently down Hermione's face. "They claimed to be visitors. Then they… they stabbed her… They don't think she's going to make it."

A deep pang hit him in the stomach. He felt vomit come up again when he thought of his mother being He didn't notice his hands were shaking until Hermione reached out and held them down.

"I want to see her," he said firmly.

"Draco, I don't think we can't leave here…"

"She's my _mother_!" he snarled. He didn't mean to be so aggressive towards her, but his temperament was out of check. He saw Harry emerge from the kitchen in the corner of his eye.

"Don't you talk to her like that," Potter said warningly. "She's right, it's safer to stay here—"

Unable to restrain himself and twice as aggressive without a wand, Draco turned to Harry and pushed him, pinning him by the shoulders against the wall. "She's my fucking _mother_ , Potter. The last family I have left. She's _all_ I have. How dare you—"

"Malfoy, put him down!" he heard Hermione cry.

He looked back at her and saw the craze reflected in her eyes and he felt sick with himself. He loosened his grip on Harry, breathing heavily. "She saved your life," he said lowly, pleadingly.

This seemed to have an effect on Harry, who clenched his jaw. "She's at St. Mungo's."

"That place is warded to high hell. We would be fine." Draco let go of Harry, who rubbed his shoulder and sighed, his resolve cracking.

"You'd have to let Hermione disguise you."

Draco nodded firmly. "And she's coming with me."

"No—"

"Harry, you do _not_ make decisions for me," Hermione said indignantly. Harry, now having gone two days without sleep, didn't bother to argue with his most stubborn friend.

"Fine," he relented. "I'll escort you both but we can't stay more than a few hours, not until the department sorts out the attack and we have more details. They expect us to visit her right now."

Draco nodded, trying to swallow the lump in his throat. Hermione grasped his hand firmly and squeezed, nodding briskly at Draco, then at Harry. "Okay. Let's go, then."

* * *

Walking down the blindingly white walls of St. Mungo's made Hermione's lungs tighten. Memories of spending weeks eating hospital food and sleeping in plastic waiting room chairs in the months after the war flooded back. She practically knew the hallways like the back of her hand—there was the room Molly stayed while they removed a dark curse Bellatrix had cast on her before her death. Across the way was where Percy was, completely mute and refusing to eat after Fred died. And on the floor above, in room 315, they had all crowded around a hospital bed to watch Romilda Vane finally succumb to her injuries and die.

Hermione grasped Draco's hand without thinking. They were disguised heavily as an elderly couple. She realized she'd never held his hand before, but decided quickly that it was nice.

Harry, disguised as their son, led them to one of the private rooms. The nurse asked for names, and he told her that these were two of Narcissa's closest friends from her nursing home, that Narcissa specifically asked for them to be at her side if she were ever harmed. The nurse looked doubtful of his story, but appeared too overworked to care enough to protest. "Fine," she said. "Go on, but only two at a time."

Once the nurse left, Harry motioned for them to go in. "I'll wait out here for you."

Hermione looked up at Draco's eyes and saw them glistened over slightly. She rubbed her thumb over the outside of his hand and opened the door, leading him inside.

Narcissa was on her back on a bed, her skin so impossibly pale, devoid of blood, her chest strapped in bandages and her breath coming in slight flutters. She heard Draco's breath catch and she bit her lip to keep herself from crying. She'd seen this too many times before.

Draco leaned forward to wake his mother, but Hermione stopped him. "Wait."

She raised her wand and undid their disguises, erasing his wrinkles and returning his hair back to its silver blond. "She should recognize you," she explained. Draco didn't respond, but she could see the appreciation in his eyes.

Hermione watched from the side of the room as Draco gently woke his mother, kissing her on the forehead and greeting her in hushed tones. She'd only ever seen him act that gentle once before, when he kissed her the first time. Somehow the gentleness meant more when it came from someone with such hard edges. It made her sad to think that before her, his mother was the only one person in his life who ever let him be anything but hardened and cold. And that in the end, even that one person couldn't handle the reality of their lives enough to stand by him after the war. Hermione wondered what sort of a mother Narcissa was. She always imagined Draco's parents to be distant and stern, but she could tell that wasn't true for the Malfoy matriarch, at least. Images of a small Draco watercolor painting or horseback riding with Narcissa flashed in her mind. She smiled.

They spoke to each other for about fifteen minutes, Draco not once breaking his gaze from his mother's face. She could tell Narcissa was struggling to breathe—gauging by the placement of her wound, they had almost certainly punctured a lung. After a short while, Narcissa finally lifted her head and looked past Draco to Hermione, who smiled awkwardly.

"Is this the girl?" Narcissa asked, her voice hoarse. Hermione looked at Draco questioningly, and he blushed. What had he told his mother about her?

"Yes, Mother. This is her."

"She's quite pretty," she said, her eyes crinkling at the edges as she smiled at Hermione. "You're good to my son?"

Hermione nodded. "I hope I am."

"She is," Draco said as he rubbed his mother's hand gently. "She's brilliant, mother. Smartest witch you'll ever meet."

"You said you like her, but does she like you?"

Hermione chuckled. "He's all right," she said, smiling at Draco.

Narcissa turned back to her son and caressed his face just slightly. "I can see your father, sweetheart. He's waiting for me."

Hermione's heart tore into pieces as Draco began to cry over his mother. "I'm so sorry."

"For what, darling?" Narcissa smiled again, her eyes closed, peaceful. "You are the best thing that has ever happened to me. The one redeeming thing to come of my life. After all that your father did…"

Draco frowned. "You remember? You remember the war?"

Narcissa's eyes fluttered open again and she smiled hazily. "Hm?"

"Never mind," he said, some relief seeming to set in. He looked at her serenely. "It's okay. You can go now. Go be with him."

Hermione could tell as Narcissa looked over at her that the life was beginning to fade behind the woman's eyes. She reached out to touch Hermione's hand. "You make him happy, I can tell." Then turned back to Draco. Her voice weak, she spoke her last words. "All I could ever ask for in life is that you be happy. And I can see it in your eyes, Draco. There is finally peace in you for the first time."

Draco clutched his mother's hand as she took a final shuddering breath.

"I love you, mother."

"I love you, too."

And then it was over, Hermione could tell. Her hand went limp in Draco's and her mouth went slack. Hermione tasted saltiness in her mouth and noticed she'd been crying as well. Tentatively she reached out and leaned into Draco's shoulder as he silently sobbed, his body quivering. Eventually he finally let go of his mother's hand and buried himself in Hermione's chest, completely and utterly broken.

* * *

Eventually Harry coaxed a mourning Draco from his mother's bedside, then guided them back to Grimmauld Place. His previously aggressive attitude about Draco's temporary residence at his house was long gone, replace with pity and empathy. If there was one thing Harry knew well, it was the pain of being orphaned. After a long shower, a small meal brought upstairs by Ginny, and a brief go-over the rules from Harry, Draco was settled in his bed. The room they gave him was cold and bare, furnished only with a bed, a dresser, and a mirror. The window had no blinds and he was distracted by the bright moonlight, which reflected off the wooden floors and into his eyes. He didn't know exactly which room Hermione was in, but he knew it was just a few doors down. He could hear her bed creak as she lay down and he wished for nothing more than to lie down next to her. To feel someone else's warmth, to not feel so empty for just a moment.

"Don't you dare touch Hermione," was one of Harry's many rules. It was only his first night here; he couldn't very well go and piss off Potter so soon.

He shifted onto his side and tried to distract himself from visions of his mother in her last moments. Was she in pain? Did she know what was happening? Did she remember what had happened, if only for a second?

As he fought to cast away his own thoughts, he heard the creak of his door opening. He sat up in fear only to see Hermione, dressed in blue plaid pajamas. She bit her lip nervously and stared, waiting to gauge his reaction.

He sighed in relief. "Thank you."

Slowly, she nodded and shut the door behind her, then crawled into bed beside him. There was no kiss, no touching, nothing erotic about it, tonight was not the night for that. She brushed the side of his forehead gently with the pad of her thumb and he counted the rise and fall of her chest against his back until he fell asleep, finally able to rest with her by his side.

* * *

 **A/N: I think this might be the shortest of all my chapters! I wanted to keep it brief and focused on the grief Draco was feeling. I could have expanded more on Narcissa's death scene, but I wanted to keep it simple. I know many of you are waiting for fluff, and I promise it will come in the next two chapters. Fluff and maybe some other things (;**

 **Review question: Any theories on who's behind the attacks/the identity of the two people who tried to kill Draco? All will be revealed next chapter… (I think. I have to go back and re-read it lol)**


	23. I Spy

_a/n: some of y'all were so accurate at guessing who the two attackers were! i've been so insanely stressed this past week, so i haven't responded to reviews, but i promise i see them all and appreciate you all so very much! it warms my stressed heart to hear how much y'all have been enjoying the story :)_

 _songs: drops of jupiter/train_

 _yellow/coldplay_

 **Chapter Twenty-Three: I Spy**

* * *

Ginny Weasley was used to being out of the loop. At Hogwarts, she always watched Ron, Hermione, and Harry together at the Gryffindor table during breakfast, their heads joined together in an exclusive triangle, whispering about their latest adventures. When she was younger it frustrated her not to know what was going on, and Harry's explanation that he was 'trying to protect her' only served to infuriate her more. But once the war was over and the only secrets he was hiding from her was what variety of takeout he was bringing home, she stopped caring as much about being left in the dark.

But now that she was nearing six months pregnant, she was being treated more and more like she was made of glass and it was driving her absolutely mad. Harry didn't like it when she left the house without a companion, she wasn't allowed to Apparate, even if it was just going down the street, and her family was policing everything from the food she ate to the clothes she wore. Fleur had the audacity to suggest her pants were ' _suffocating ze poor fetus!_ '

Now there was this business of the lightning bolt attacks (that was the flashy name the _Prophet_ gave them), and Harry seemed to have the idea that the mere act of _talking_ about death and murder would harm their growing baby. She was damn near ready to take a pickaxe to the wall just to entertain herself when the perfect opportunity to meddle landed neatly in her lap in the shapes of Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy.

Unlike her husband and brother, she actually knew a little bit about what Malfoy had been up to the past few years. Her Harpy friends were the biggest bunch of gossips on the face of Earth and Malfoy had been brought up a few times in their locker room chats—one girl saw him scattering (or, more accurately, dumping) his father's ashes in the ocean, another heard he lived in the States for a bit, and a third said when he returned to England he wasn't such a huge prat anymore Suzie, one of their beaters, actually stood behind him in line at a Quidditch shop and reported that he was quite pleasant to the clerk, who was a known Squib.

These stories were just passing gossip, though, and Ginny forgot Malfoy even existed until two months ago when Hermione announced, voice dripping in contempt, that he was going to be escorting her on her Ministry trip. Ginny fully expected both of them to maim one another before the trip was up, so it was much to her surprise (though, shockingly, not much to her disgust) that Malfoy ended up _kissing_ her closest friend. What was even more surprising was that Hermione didn't seem to hate it. And now the both of them were trapped at 12 Grimmauld Place, and hell was more likely to freeze over than Ginny was going to pass up on this opportunity to meddle.

The first night Draco stayed in the house, Ginny heard Hermione scamper across the creaky upstairs floor to Draco's room, and in the early morning she heard her sneak back into her own room. Ginny smirked, one hand on her tight stomach, the other tracing the empty pillow by her head where Harry was supposed to be. He returned to the Ministry in the middle of the night, unable to trust that anyone else on the Auror force would be able to handle the brewing crisis.

Her back aching and unable to fall back asleep, Ginny rose with a short groan and decided this was a perfect opportunity to go have a chat with her new houseguest. She'd heard Hermione's side of the story, but now it was time for her to gauge for herself just how much ferret still lived inside Draco Malfoy.

* * *

Draco woke to a loud rapping on his bedroom door. He opened his eyes hazily to find the space next to him empty: Hermione must have left in the middle of the night. His room was gently lit with the very first rays of morning light.

"Malfoy?" called a female's voice from the other side of the door. It was too rough to be Hermione's, which meant it was probably the she-Weasley's. He sat up and pulled a t-shirt over his head before opening the door. She was still in her pajamas, her hair tied up in a messy bun.

"Hello," he said.

"Hi. May I come in?"

He looked around at the room, where there really wasn't anywhere to sit. "Er—sure, but there isn't a chair or anything."

"Oh."

"I'd transfigure one, but I don't have a wand," he said awkwardly.

Ginny scratched her head. "Right. Um, why don't you come downstairs then? I need my morning tea to function normally anyway."

He did as he was told, too tired and groggy to give her any sass. The Potter's dining room was simple and cozy. A couple cross-stiches, probably gifted by the Weasley matriarch, hung over the clean white counters. His mind came to slowly as Ginny prepared the tea, and he felt the heaviness of the previous day's events set in. Ginny poured them both a cup of tea and sat down next to him. "I wanted a chance for us to talk before Hermione woke up."

"She rises early," he said.

"Which is why I'm up even earlier," Ginny said smartly. She took a long sip of tea without breaking eye contact with Draco. He noticed her eyes were the same color as Hermione's, but the two women wore them very differently. While Hermione's were slow-burning flames, Ginny's were fireworks and sharp edges. He decided he liked Hermione's better.

"I'm sorry about your mother," she said gently. "I know she meant a lot to you."

He clenched the teacup so hard he thought it might shatter in his fist. "She did," he affirmed.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

He was struck by the straightforwardness of this. "No, I wouldn't."

"Then we won't." She leaned back in her chair, took a long sip of tea, never once breaking eye contact with him.

"So, what _did_ you wish to discuss with me?" He folded his hands on top of the table. "Your husband was very clear yesterday with his long list of rules that he thinks I'm out to harm you."

"I'm not Harry," said Ginny coolly. "And you have given me no reason to think you want to hurt me."

He nodded. This was why he liked her the best out of Hermione's friends—she was honest, and blunt. She spoke his language. "Good. I'm glad we're on the same page."

"Intent and outcome are two different things, though," she continued, her voice casually pointed as she stirred her tea. "It's easy not to mean to hurt someone and for them to end up hurt anyway."

He licked his lips. "I have a feeling we're not talking about you anymore."

Ginny smirked. "She told me everything that happened."

He had assumed Hermione spilled her secrets to her bosom buddies, but having Ginny confirm it made him uncomfortable nevertheless. He squirmed slightly in his seat. "Is this your obligatory 'don't hurt my best friend' speech? Because if she told you everything, she probably told you nothing has really happened between us."

Ginny pointed her spoon at him. " _That's_ what I want to talk about."

"What?"

"Hermione likes labels. She likes categorization and security. I want to know if you can give her those things."

Fuck—he hadn't even worked out his own feelings, he wasn't ready for this kind of interrogation. "I don't know if I _want_ to give her those things yet."

"Oh, bugger off. I've seen the way you look at her. You might not be able to accept it, but it's there." He slumped slightly in his chair and she leaned forward across the table. "Tell me, Malfoy—what's stopping you? You think she's too shrill? Too bossy? Do you think you're too good for her, because I'll be the first to tell you that you're definitely not."

He scoffed. "Too good for _her_? It's the exact opposite!" He unfolded his left arm onto the table, baring his Dark Mark for her, and waited for her to flinch. Much to his surprise, she held her composure.

"I'm not going to throw you a pity party, Malfoy. D'you think that's the first Mark I've seen? One of the bloody publicists for the Harpies has one—he was an idiot kid, just like you, who made a mistake. Funnily enough, his manipulative talents come in handy when he's trying to spin one of our player's public faux pas."

Draco blinked. "Oh."

Ginny sighed a short laugh and shook her head at him. "Some people have a hard time letting go of the past, which is completely understandable. Some days I want to go and kill every bastard I know who was associated with the man who murdered my husband's parents, who killed our friends. But I know that won't bring them back, and I know some of those people aren't responsible for what happened. Some of them, under other circumstances, might have been different.

"Of course, I still think you were a giant prat when you were younger and I can't for the life of me understand how Hermione could forget the boy who called her a Mudblood and made her teeth grow like a beaver's in front of her friends. But that's Hermione for you—she's one of the most forgiving people I know, and you shouldn't take that for granted. If she's forgiven you, you shouldn't throw that opportunity away."

The raw honesty in her words made him feel safe shedding his prideful skin. He hung his head slightly and sighed. "I fucking hate myself most days."

"I won't lie, I would feel that way too if I were you. But maybe it's time to change that."

"Meaning?"

She looked at him, the fireworks in her eyes dimming to a light sparkle. "You take a step back and you figure out why it is that you can't let someone else forgive you for your mistakes. Maybe you need to make peace with yourself before you can feel okay about letting her forgive you."

 _Shit_ , he thought to himself. _Were all her friends this bloody intuitive?_

* * *

Later that morning, Draco found Hermione in her bedroom, dressed in a light sundress, her hair pulled back into a loose, lopsided ponytail. The sun was falling on her at an angle that made her glow, and she might have looked angelic had it not been for the scrunched expression on her face as she read a book on her lap.

He smirked. "Granger?"

She dropped the book and looked up, surprised. "Oh, hi." A mild amount of pity lingered in her eyes, but he wanted nothing less than to talk about his mother.

"You left this morning."

She flushed pink. "I, er, I didn't want Ginny or Harry to see—"

"It's okay," he said with a chuckle. "I understand. What are you reading?"

"Spanish poetry. I've always been rubbish at Spanish."

"Then why read it?"

She looked as if she'd never considered such a question before. "I… Well, I'm not exactly sure," she laughed. "Sometimes a challenge is nice."

He stood awkwardly in the doorframe, his conversation with Ginny that morning still fresh in his mind. "Do you want to sit?" she asked.

"Oh. Sure." She shifted over and he sat next to her on the edge of her bed.

"How are you feeling?" she asked, and perhaps for the first time in his life, he knew someone _really_ wanted to know what he was feeling, and they weren't only asking for formality's sake.

"Not the best," he answered honestly. "But I'll be better."

"You don't have to be better. You can be not okay for as long as you need."

He shrugged. "Life has always been about minimizing the suffering."

She nodded sagely. "Very true." He could tell she knew he didn't want to talk about it any further.

"So… How long do you think we'll be here for?" he asked.

She shrugged. "Hard to tell. But thanks to you we have two new suspects to get information from, so it might not be long."

He wasn't too excited about staying at the Potters' house, especially with the long list of rules (no leaving the room during the night, no entering any bedrooms except his own, no contact with anyone outside the house, no nudity at any time—as if Draco wanted to walk around nude in front of Potter and his wife). But at the same time, it was nice to be around other people. Draco had spent enough of his years alone.

And then there was her. Hermione. He wasn't sure exactly where the two of them stood, but he decided he would keep the door open and let her make the move if she desired. He'd already put himself out there, and he didn't have the guts to do it again. He certainly wasn't going to scream his feelings for her out loud again, but he would make it clear they were still there.

"So what do we do to pass the time, then?" he asked.

Hermione sighed and flopped backwards onto the bed. "There were a few games we—me and Ron, sometimes Harry—used to play when we were on the run. We spent weeks in different forests and it got boring quickly. Ron's favorite was 'I Spy.' It's a Muggle game for children where you pick something in the room and the other person asks questions about what the item looks like until they figure out what you picked."

"That sounds utterly boring," Draco scoffed.

"It is. But when you have nothing else to do, it can be rather entertaining." She surveyed the room with her large brown eyes. "Okay, let's try it—I spy, with my little eye, something yellow."

He leaned back onto her bedframe and looked down at her. "Why do you think your eyes are little?"

"I don't," she sighed. "It's just what you say in the game."

"That's silly. Your eyes are actually abnormally large, like cows' eyes or something—"

"Shut up and just ask questions about the item," she chided.

"I didn't mean anything bad by it, cow's eyes are rather nice," he muttered. "Okay, is this yellow thing warm?" he asked, thinking about the sun.

"No."

"Is it… a piece of clothing?" A yellow sweater was hanging in her closet.

"Yes."

"Is it that sweater?"

"No."

He was already fed up with this game. "Is it something you wear during the day?"

"Yes."

"Is it something in your dresser?"

"No—Draco, it's supposed to be something we can both see."

He groaned. "I give up. This is boring."

She rolled her eyes. "Fine. It was your sock."

He raised his leg indignantly. "My socks are not yellow! They're white."

"Those smelly things are definitely yellow," she said with a giggle. "Look at them! When was the last time you washed those?"

He took off the socks, embarrassed. Truthfully, he couldn't remember the last time he'd washed them. "I hate this game."

"You're always so put together, I'm surprised you don't wash your things more often. You do know bacteria can build up in socks? You're putting yourself at risk for a fungal infection."

He stood to leave. "We are never playing this game again!" As he exited her room he could hear her giggling against her sheets, and he couldn't help but grin to himself as well.

* * *

Hermione spent most of the day in her room reading and watching one of her favorite plays on her floating projector. From her brief conversation with him that morning, she assumed Draco wanted some time alone to process his feelings. So when she finally descended to the ground floor of Grimmauld place, she was surprised to hear the laughing voices of Ginny and Draco from the kitchen. The two of them were chortling away like old friends as they moved around the kitchen, Ginny on chopping and washing duty, Draco manning the stove. Hermione stepped into view carefully, not wanting to disrupt whatever strange universe she had just entered.

Upon seeing her, Draco doubled over in laughter, hands on his knees, his hair falling over into his eyes. The mere sight of Draco in such a state made Hermione smile, albeit confusedly. "What's going on?"

Ginny giggled. "I was just telling Malfoy some stories."

She blanched. This was not good—the amount of dirt Ginny had on her was enough to build a mountain. "Ginny Weasley, I will hex you so fast—"

"Is it true you turned yourself into a cat?" Draco asked between bouts of laughter.

"Ginny!" Hermione stomped her foot. "I was twelve, come on!"

"If it makes you feel better, he was very impressed that you brewed Polyjuice Potion all by yourself in your second year."

Hermione turned to Draco with her eyebrows raised. "Did she also tell you the reason we brewed it was to talk to you? Harry and Ron disguised themselves as Crabbe and Goyle for an afternoon and they got to see the Slytherin common room."

Draco's eyebrows shot up. " _What_?"

"Who's laughing now?" Hermione said smartly as she pushed herself up onto the kitchen countertop. "Actually, it was such a stupid theory, looking back. Harry thought you were the heir of Slytherin."

Draco doubled over laughing again. "Oh, how twelve-year-old me _wished_ I could be that cool."

She remembered young Draco with his fancy broomsticks and spotless robes and slicked-back hair. Just passing him in the hallway was enough to ruin her morning, and now… Now she couldn't imagine _not_ seeing him in the mornings.

Ginny tapped her shoulder with a wooden spoon and pointed at a bubbling pot of sauce on the stove. "Have you tried Malfoy's cooking? It's fantastic."

"Don't compliment him, the last thing he needs is something else to brag about."

"You should be one to talk—Ginny was telling me about the time you gave everyone a copy of your own book for Christmas two years ago."

Hermione's jaw dropped again and she smacked Ginny over the head with a dishtowel. "I'm officially nullifying our friendship."

"You should be happy that Draco and I are bonding!" Ginny squealed as she ducked to avoid Hermione's dishtowel wrath.

" _This is not the type of bonding I was hoping for_!" She turned to Draco defensively. "And I didn't _just_ give them the book, I got other stuff as well. I was just very proud of myself for getting something published."

He gave her a small, more sincere smile. "You should be. I read that book, you know. It was good."

She blinked. "You read it?"

"Mhm," he said as he stirred the sauce a few more times and turned the heat down. "It was everywhere, after all—Hermione Granger, war heroine, writes book! I don't think an academic review of the history of magical law has ever sold so many copies. Thought it was right dry, but it had some good points."

She felt warm on the inside knowing he liked her book. It wasn't anything special—a few months after its publication it stopped selling almost entirely, but she was still proud of her work.

"I probably have my copy somewhere," he said with a smirk. "Maybe you could sign it for me? Oh, how _amazing_ it would be to have my book signed by the famous _Hermione_ _Granger_."

She smacked him over the head too. "Git."

Draco served dinner with a flourish, presenting each dish as if it were a piece of art, although Hermione had to admit he did prepare his food fancily enough to be considered art. There were even edible flowers in the salad, which Ginny snorted at and said were a bit excessive.

They were almost through with dinner when the Floo roared green and both Harry and Ron came stumbling through, their eyes full of a familiar stress and worry Hermione had seen countless times. Both discarded their briefcases on the floor, looked towards the kitchen, and sighed, almost in unison. Immediately Hermione knew they were bearing the burden of bad news.

"What happened?" Ginny asked. She stood quickly and went to her husband and brother's side. Ron didn't question Draco's presence—Harry must have warned him.

"We have news about the two suspects we apprehended," Ron said gruffly.

"We think Hermione and Malfoy should know," said Harry.

Hermione looked over to Draco, who appeared as concerned as she was. He tightened his fist into a ball. "Those are the people who murdered my mother," he said harshly.

"Which is why you deserve to know what's going on," agreed Harry. Both he and Ron pulled up chairs. "I didn't know any of this morning. Ron and I actually weren't allowed to question them until today."

"Go on, just tell us," Ginny said. "No sense in beating around the bush."

Harry's jaw clenched and Ron took over. "The man was immediately identified as Dennis Creevey."

Hermione pulled back in shock. "What?"

"I don't understand, who is that?" Draco asked.

"He was a kid two years behind us. His brother was murdered during the War," Harry explained, his voice catching. Hermione knew Colin's death was hard on Harry, as he felt responsible for such a young death. Harry wished he had been kinder to him when he was alive.

"Oh, Harry…" Ginny said, reaching out to hold her husband's hand.

"The other woman," Ron continued, this time with his gaze fixed on one spot on the dining table. "We couldn't identify her at first. Her mask was charmed on so well it took hours to finally get it off. And then her face was… It was scarred so badly… Like Bill, but so much worse…"

"It was Lavender," Harry said miserably. Hermione felt her heart drop to her stomach. _Lavender Brown?_

Ron looked as if he was going to cry and Hermione instinctively wrapped an arm around him comfortingly. Lavender wasn't their favorite person, but she had been a friend. An ally. "She was attacked by Greyback during the Battle of Hogwarts and left the country right after to live alone. It's not easy to be a werewolf."

"Did you question them? Will they be sentenced? Tell me your past with them won't affect justice being served," Draco said fiercely.

"Of course it won't!" Hermione said to him, her arm still around Ron. Draco narrowed his eyes at her.

"My mother was murdered."

"And Dennis's brother was murdered and Lavender was turned into a bloody werewolf! We all have reasons to be angry," she said a little too defensively. "Harry and Ron are allowed to be upset that people we considered friends have become… _this_."

Draco opened his mouth to retort but Ginny cut him off. "Stop this. We're all on the same side here." She turned to Harry. "Do you have any information about why they would do this?"

"We can tell Lavender is somewhat in charge. Dennis and the other two we have in custody listen to her, but she also mentioned a boss, so she's not the highest ranked. We didn't have much face time with them, though."

Ron shook his head. "When they saw us, it was like they expected us to congratulate them or something. They were smiling, asking how we were, if we were happy with what they did. It was almost like they thought we would be thanking us. Like they did us a favor."

"Like they did what we couldn't," Harry said grimly.

Hermione swallowed. "They think they're doing our dirty work."

"Except no one asked them to," Ron said.

She pinched her forehead. "This is my fault. I was always preaching justice and all that—"

"No, it has to be my fault," Harry said. "I was always talking about revenge when we were arresting all the Death Eaters after the war."

"It's my fault too," said Ron. "I told so many people how badly I wanted to hurt them like they hurt us."

Ginny shook her head vigorously. "It's none of our faults! The difference between them and us is that we might have _felt_ like getting revenge, but we know that an eye for an eye isn't the right answer. We can't hold ourselves responsible for what happened. We would never intentionally harm someone who didn't deserve it—we aren't those people."

Draco stood suddenly, and Hermione saw the pain in his eyes. His lip quivered slightly, out of anger or frustration or despair, Hermione couldn't tell. "All I want to know is that my mother's death will not go ignored."

Harry shook his head firmly. "It won't." Hermione knew this promise wasn't an empty one, that Harry would do everything he could to make the situation right again.

"Good. She was innocent." No, the quivering was definitely sadness, Hermione decided. Draco blinked rapidly. "She was dragged into a world she didn't want to be part of. We all were."

Quickly he turned on his heel and went back upstairs to his room. Hermione thought about following him but knew her place right now needed to be with her friends, trying to piece together why two people who were once so good could go so terribly, horribly bad.

* * *

 **A/N: Next chapter will bring with it some fluff and maybe some other fun m-rated things (;**

 **Review question: Would you rather own a dragon or be a dragon? Or, alternatively, what's one great thing in your life right now? I could use some positivity lol**


	24. Something There

a/n: it's about to get mildly citrus-y. you've been warned.

 _songs: beauty and the beast/ariana grande and john legend_

 _'_ _not afraid anymore'/halsey_

 **Chapter Twenty-Four: Something There**

* * *

"You're too considerate," Harry grumbled to his wife as she tried to sneak back into their bed as quietly as possible, the clock on the wall indicating that it was near midnight. Ron had left Grimmauld Place two hours earlier after delivering the news about Lavender and Dennis. Malfoy didn't take well the news that the department's first priority wasn't retribution for his mother's death, but Harry didn't have time to be especially concerned about how Malfoy was dealing with things. His wife, on the other hand, apparently did.

"Damn," Ginny cursed playfully as she flopped back into bed. "Am I not as stealth as I thought I was?"

The answer was no, Harry had heard Ginny slowly lift their sheet and sneak out the moment she'd thought he was asleep. He knew where was going, upstairs to check on Malfoy. On one hand it bothered him that she even cared how Malfoy was doing, but on the other hand, it was her fierce compassion that he fell in love with.

"How is he?" Harry asked as he shifted over to cradle his wife.

"He's okay. Much less angry. He's very focused on justice for his mother, that's all."

Harry breathed in the faint evergreen scent of his wife's soft hair. "I understand," he said. "We should have Narcissa's remains soon. According to tradition, she's to be cremated."

Ginny nodded, her hair tickling the bottom of his chin. "He doesn't mean to be rude, you know."

"What, it's just his nature?" Harry snorted.

"It _was_ his nature. But now… Now he's got Hermione. Now things are different."

He looked down at her and asked the question he'd been too afraid to utter before. He wasn't an idiot, he saw the way they looked at each other, but Hermione was a sister to him and the mere thought of Malfoy's disturbingly pale hands anywhere near her was enough to make Harry feel ill. "Are they— Is she—?"

"I don't think so," she said. "Not yet."

He wrinkled his nose at the possibility. Ginny looked up at him and grinned. "But you should prepare yourself, Harry Potter. Something between them is brewing."

His stomach turned and he rolled over onto his back, looking up at the ceiling and imagining the man somewhere upstairs, the man who was once a troubled boy who tortured him to no end, the man who now was becoming far too cozy with his closest friend.

* * *

It had been a week and a half since they'd arrived at Grimmauld Place, since Narcissa had died. Hermione made it a habit to crawl into bed with Draco every night, which he found to be both a blessing and a curse. It was nice to have her there, to sometimes wake with her hand on his back, or her arse pressed against his legs. To just have a _person_. On the other hand, he only had a short time in the shower every morning to relieve himself of his… _below-the-belt_ problems. Some mornings he had to rush to the bathroom before she woke, not wanting her to feel his hardness against the back of her thighs.

He waited and waited for her to do or say something, anything, to indicate sleeping together could move forward and become… well, _sleeping together_. But nothing happened—in the mornings she would sneak back away to her room, even though he knew Ginny was well aware of where she was spending the night. They never spoke about the sleeping arrangement, but every night without fail she would tiptoe into his room, lift the sheets, and snuggle in beside him—never too close, but in the middle of the night they would inevitably end up entangled in one another.

On the day Harry arrived with Narcissa's ashes stored in a blue porcelain vase, Hermione consoled him, brought food to him so he didn't have to leave his room, even hummed a song lightly to him and traced small circles on his back as he tried to fall asleep that night. She distracted him when he wanted to leave the house and scatter his mum's ashes in the gardens at Malfoy Manor like she would have wanted. Hermione listened intently as he told her story after story, most of them drab and without point, about the adventures he and his mother would go on when he was a child: mornings watching caterpillars in the garden, afternoons finger painting in the drawing room, evenings watching her bake scones, the only thing she knew how to make, letting him lick the bowl.

It was these small moments with Hermione that defined his feelings for her. She was gentle in a way he had never experience before; he never once worried that her time spent with him was for any reason other than enjoying his company. She was patient and honest, even brutally so, but everything she nagged him about was for a good purpose. He spent so much time in her presence that he forgot what life might be like without her, and he wondered how he was supposed to adjust to being alone again. Over the years he'd grown accustomed to having constant void in his life, but now that he knew what it was like to have that vacancy filled, he didn't know how he was supposed to go back.

Over time all the nights and mornings began to bleed together, and some days he couldn't remember if it was a week or a month since their arrival. They both spent most of their time working, sometimes in the drawing room, sometimes at the dining table, sometimes on Draco's bed, both of their backs pressed against the headboard. She read old court records, sometimes out loud with her own commentary, and he would sometimes disagree with her just so he could see that fire in her eyes as she argued vehemently with him. While she read, he measured precise amounts of corpse flower petals and stingray poison, tossed them into his cauldron, and avoided Hermione's angry swats as she berated him for not being more careful when puffs of foul smoke exploded from his various brews. He refocused his energy into finally perfecting his Prophesieve. There was one combination that when touched gave him the faintest flash of a vision, but nothing substantial yet. He was getting there, though. He would get it eventually.

Their days were long but Hermione's company made them shorter. Ginny was fun, too, he learned, always ready with her razor-sharp tongue. Sometimes Lovegood came by and it was amusing to watch Hermione try to argue logically with a woman who so clearly had no interest in rationality. Potter was tolerable most nights so long as his day at work wasn't too strenuous. Draco appreciated that at the very least, he kept them updated about the White Hats: Dennis did nothing but apologize for his mistakes, while Lavender was refusing to talk until she was allowed to speak with Harry, Ron, _and_ Hermione.

"I'm not ready to take that chance yet," Harry told them over dinner one night. "There's a lot of complicated moving parts going on at the moment and we're focused on following protocol right now. We believe that Lavender was an integral member of the group's leadership and that there won't be a significant attack while we have her in custody."

Draco wasn't sure how much longer they were going to be kept at Grimmauld Place for, but the place wasn't driving him as insane as it did at first. Begrudgingly, he began to understand why Hermione called these people her closest friends.

One evening after a long day of testing several potions, Draco came downstairs to warm up a plate of dinner and found Hermione on the couch watching a film on her floating projector. She was leaning back against one of the armrests, her legs extended across the couch, covered by a flimsy throw blanket. She turned with a small smile when she heard him descend the stairs. "Hi there."

"Hi," he said. He looked around for Ginny. "Where's Weasley?"

"She went to see her Harpy friends. Apparently she trusts us to be here alone now—but we're not supposed to tell Harry," she said. "He'd be furious if he knew we were here alone." She winked mischeviously.

Interesting. They were alone again, just as they had been for so long before, but the situation seemed strangely uncomfortable now. "What are you watching?" he asked. An animated girl in a blue dress was twirling around onscreen.

"A film. Would you like to join me?"

He wrinkled his nose contemplatively. "Is it any good?"

"Why would I watch a film that isn't good?"

"Because you have poor taste," he said with a shrug and a playful glint in his eye. These were the insults they threw now—small, insignificant hits laced with friendliness.

She rolled her eyes. "Bring over some popcorn and wine and watch with me."

He popped a bag of popcorn just as Ginny taught him, poured her a glass of wine, and was heading towards the vacant armchair when Hermione lifted her legs to the side, inviting him to sit on the couch with her. He paused, breath held, but decided it would be rude to decline the offer. He sat and she draped her legs back over his lap so casually he realized their sleeping together might not mean anything—that he was relegated to the same bleak realm as Potter and Weasley, destined only for friendship and nothing more.

With a heavy sigh he settled in and tried to pay attention to the film. "It's called Beauty and the Beast," she explained. On screen the girl was dancing in a bookstore, clutching several books to her chest.

"Do you like this film because she reminds you of yourself?" he teased. "Nose always stuck in a book? Really is a funny girl, that Hermione Granger?"

She smiled and shrugged, taking a long sip of her wine. "I used to identify with her when I was little, but then the buckteeth grew in and my hair got all frizzy and I couldn't relate anymore."

"Why?"

"Belle is a swot, but she's a beautiful swot," she said with a sad smile. "I wasn't exactly blessed with remarkable looks growing up."

He gave a small scoff and rolled his eyes. "Quit fishing for compliments."

"I'm doing no such thing!"

"You look just like her!" he said exasperatedly. "Pale skin, big brown eyes like hers. Only difference is your hair is bigger and your waist isn't that small, but no one's is. Her proportions are actually horribly off, really, it's unrealistic, like Muggles don't understand how bodies work…"

Hermione ducked her head, likely to hide a smile, and feeling more confident, he gently curved his palms over her legs. He watched the movie intently and found himself enjoying it. Hermione inserted memories of her childhood along the way—how her mother would sing ' _Beauty and the Beast_ ' to help her fall asleep, how Belle's father was so much like her own father. He imagined a young Hermione in red plaid pajamas watching the film, unaware that the magic she saw on screen was brewing in her own blood. He imagined where he would have been at that same moment, miles away, being told by his own parents that her magic wasn't real.

Hermione shifted many times throughout the film, eventually ending up sitting upright next to him and leaning her head against his shoulder. She had three glasses of wine and he was beginning to worry she might only have feelings for him while under the influence. When the movie reached its closing scenes, he thought to himself how strange Muggle films were. "All the Beast needed was for Belle to say she loved him? Why would the curse have such an easy way to be broken?" he asked her.

"Well, the witch didn't think anyone could love the Beast," Hermione explained quietly, looking over and up at him intently. "She knew it would be difficult for someone to see past his ugly exterior, find the good inside him, and love him despite his faults."

A knot grew in his throat and he looked away. He could tell they weren't talking about the movie anymore—had she picked this film on purpose? Did she know he'd come and watch with her? No, not even she could have that sort of foresight. He felt her lift her head off his shoulder to look at him more closely. Uncomfortable with the tension, he tried to breath a short laugh. "Well, I hope you don't think there's a prince hiding inside here."

"I know that," she said quietly. "And there's also no flawless, endlessly kind beauty here."

His eyes met hers, wide, brown, curious, her pupils dilated large, black drowning brown. One of his fingers found its way to the bottom of her chin, angling it up. She smiled, uncertain and brazen at the same time.

"Malfoy?" she said with the faintest smile. "Are you going to kiss me?"

He paused—was this her move? Her question was without presumption; there was neither expectation nor discouragement in her tone. He _did_ want to kiss her, he wanted to so badly it hurt somewhere deep in his gut. He wanted to do it every night she crawled into his bed, every morning he woke up with her at his side, every time she leaned onto his shoulder while she read.

Her brown eyes sparkled, daring him, and he took the bait: slowly he leaned down until his lips lingered over hers, his eyes closed, his breath baited. Last time he'd denied himself the chance to be with her and this time he needed her reassurance. He waited and she was more than happy to oblige, reaching up to trace a finger down the side of his face, across his jaw, ending at the tip of his pronounced chin. With a small tug, she pulled him so close their noses touched.

"Draco," she whispered. "I care for you."

Her words made his heart jump. "I…"

"But do you… do you care for me?" she asked the question like she was terrified to know the answer. He couldn't help but laugh.

"What sort of a question is that, Granger?"

She blushed. "It's just… that first night, back at the cottage, you… You rejected me…"

He breathed another short laugh and leaned in to kiss her, soft and sweet and light. "I was drunk. I didn't want you to think I only wanted you because I was pissed."

"Oh."

"I also… Well, you were rather emotional. I didn't want you to do something you would regret."

Now it was her turn to laugh, still cradling his face close. "I want you."

Her words lit a fire in his chest. He let loose a ragged breath. "Say it again?"

" _I want you_."

He hadn't known it, but that was what he had been waiting for. She gasped as he lunged, his hands on her hips, her back, her arms, his lips pressed to hers, his tongue in her mouth, timid but alive. She responded with enthusiasm, bolder than he expected. Her nails dug into his back as his mouth left hers to nip its way down her neck. Immediately he knew he wasn't going to back away this time, and he didn't want to do this on the Potters' couch, on top of the blanket Ginny had knit for their child. He lifted her up by the arse and steadied her onto her feet, his lips never once leaving hers. His fingers began the expedition of undressing her as they stumbled their way upstairs, pausing for him to discard his shirt on the banister, then continuing into her bedroom until the back of her knees hit the edge of his bed and made her fall backwards. He kissed his way down to her bellybutton, where he looked up hesitantly at her before unbuttoning her pants.

She craned her neck and nodded. "I want you."

With renewed vigor he practically ripped off what was left of her clothing, then brought himself back up to meet her lips. One hand explored her chest, grasping and groaning, while the other fumbled with his pant zipper. She smirked against his mouth and helped him out, only showing hesitation once she felt the most intimate part of him in her hand. He immediately sensed her moment of doubt and pulled away.

"Hermione, we don't have to—"

Seeing the concern in his normally cold eyes washed away any fear she had, and she grasped him firmly, a small smile playing on her lips. "I want you," she said slowly, deliberately. "I do, I've known for some time now."

He opened his mouth, presumably to ask again if she was sure, but then she tugged up and down with those soft hands and he was powerless against her. He fell atop her again and they danced for a few moments more in the sheets, both working up a sufficient amount of nerve. After what felt like ages, Hermione finally pulled at Draco's neck and looked him straight in his eyes, which were shrouded in lust.

"Now, please," she panted.

Draco was too far gone to possibly second-guess her, so he positioned himself, and in a single moment they went from two to one.

Hermione gasped, part in pleasure, part in shock. It'd been too long. Her legs wrapped around his waist instinctively, drawing him in closer. He grit his teeth and moved slowly, allowing both of them to adjust. His breath came in small pants as they learned one another's rhythms, both wanting to ensure the other was all right. Once the grip she had on his shoulders loosened, he leaned his forehead against hers and she held back a gasp when she saw his expression.

It was unlike anything she had seen on him before: it was warmth, happiness, and connection. Not love, but something on the cusp of it. She knew what it was; his guard was down for the first time. She was seeing the wizard behind the curtain, the rawest version of himself, the part of himself he never shared. There he was, exposed only for her to see. He wanted her too, she could see it. He wanted her more than he was able to admit out loud, but it was okay, because she could read it all on his face in that moment.

"Draco?" she whispered up at him. The sound of her voice hardened whatever softness he dared to let show, and suddenly he was leaning down to hide his face in the crook of her neck, kissing and nipping as he thrust harder. She didn't have the energy to question it, so she let herself get lost in him. It would be a discussion for another time.

It wasn't long before he came undone and she right after. He groaned as he tugged aggressively at her wild hair, his mouth against her ear, his arms wrapped around her possessively, uttering her name over and over in a breathless voice that slithered its way through her ear and nestled into her brain, securing its place as a memory she wouldn't forget.

 _Hermione, Hermione, Hermione, Hermione…_

* * *

 **A/N: Okay this is like the most awkward thing ever for me to write because I've never written anything this intimate. Hopefully I did okay *awkward face*. Sorry for the short chapter, I wanted the focus to be on the moment!**

 **Also, life update because y'all gave me advice several weeks ago: the boy I went on that second date with became my boyfriend yesterday! Cheers for getting over my trust issues, yes? Lol**

 _ **Review question: Have any of you seen Beauty and the Beast? I still haven't seen it because college has kept me too busy to do anything but essays, work, and crying.**_


	25. An Eye for an Eye

**Chapter Twenty-Five: An Eye for an Eye**

* * *

Hermione had woken up in Draco's bed every morning since their arrival at Grimmauld Place, but this time was very different. This time she was naked and sore in places she hadn't been sore for a long time. Draco was sleeping beside her, also naked, his arm curved around her waist protectively. Her stomach, which almost never saw the sun, was nearly as pale as his hand. She turned to face him and studied his face as he slept, processing her memories of the night before as they came flooding back in. None of them registered negatively; in fact, she regarded them all with affection. His pale blond eyelashes fluttered slightly as he woke, perhaps somehow able to sense her stare.

She waited with baited breath for him to consider her with regret or disgust, but instead he smiled, small but genuine. "Good morning," he mumbled. His voice was heavy with sleep.

"Good morning," she whispered back.

He looked down at their naked bodies, where a sheet hid the parts of her body he had explored the night before. His expression was one of awe, as if she were a piece of abstract art too beautiful to understand, "Do you… Do you regret it?" he asked.

"Do you?"

"No."

"Then neither do I."

He sighed and sat up a little in bed. "But we should talk about it?" he asked knowingly.

"You know me well," she said, also pulling herself up into a sitting position. She needed conversations, boundaries, and labels. Her mind simply didn't work any other way.

"Then let's talk about it," Draco agreed uncharacteristically quickly. Hermione forgot how much more compliant men were when sex was involved. "Just let me take a piss first," he said. He stood without bothering to put his underwear back on and Hermione averted her eyes.

"Oh, don't get prudish on me _now_ ," he said. "If your mouth didn't have a problem with it, your eyes certainly shouldn't."

"Malfoy!" She threw a pillow at him. "Ginny could hear you!"

He chuckled his way to the loo and returned with a pair of boxers on. "Better?"

"Much." Hermione pulled on a tank top and bunched the sheets up around her lower half. Draco shifted back into bed sat next to her stiffly. She leaned into him and he eased up a bit, letting his arm wrap around her and his finger trace patterns on her shoulder. "What should we talk about?"

She drew her lower lip between her teeth and bit down nervously. "I suppose my first question would be 'why?'"

"Why what?"

She shrugged. "Just… Why?"

"Granger, I don't just jump into bed with anyone," he said reassuringly.

"You don't?" she asked. "So then… how many?"

"Four," he answered without hesitation. "Well, now five."

She nodded, deeming this number very acceptable. In reality, she hadn't given much thought to how many women Draco had slept with, and was just glad his number wasn't far into the double-digits. Then again, there probably weren't many women eager to jump into bed with a former Death Eater. "You're number three," she told him.

"They do say the third time's a charm," he said with a grin and she swatted his arm gently. "Is this relationship abusive already?" he whined.

She stiffed at his words. "So this is a relationship?" she asked timidly.

Draco pulled back. "Oh. I'm not… I'm not sure."

"Well it can hardly be a proper one if we're stuck here," she said. "But I should tell you that I have a rule about this sort of thing. I won't sleep with someone unless I'm the only one they're sleeping with."

"Well I can assure you I'm not, being that the only other option here is a married pregnant woman," he said jokingly, but then sobered. "But even if I could, I wouldn't want to."

She looked at him shyly, wondering what this meant. "So last night…?"

"Was fantastic," he finished. He leaned in close, his lips a half inch away from hers. "I was a big fan of what you did with that mouth of yours, too. Good for something besides reciting mundane facts."

She smacked his arm again, her cheeks burning. Perhaps it was because they'd waited for so long, but the sex had been great. He wasn't as controlling as she'd expected. He seemed almost frightened of her in an endearing sort of way. Every move he made was with careful deliberation and reverence.

"So you… Want to continue sleeping together?" she asked.

He looked at her as if this was the most ridiculous question to ever be asked. "I _do_ have a cock."

"Don't be crude!"

He smiled, but then looked down at her seriously. "But also," he said softly. "I also want more than that."

She swallowed. "Like what?"

He sighed and looked up at the ceiling, his cheeks flushing. "Wouldn't have thought I'd ever be saying this, but you make me happy in the simplest way. As strange as it might sound to you, I don't want just sex. Whatever this is I feel for you is more than that, and I… I want more, even if that's selfish, even if that might not be what you want. And if it isn't, then that's okay, and I respect that, and I understand. I understand why you wouldn't want this to be more than something you can hide behind doors."

"Malfoy," she said, laughter on her tongue. "You're rambling." She reached up and stroked his cheek. "I want more, too."

He looked vaguely surprised. "You do?"

"I'm not the friends-with-benefits type anyway."

"Right," he said, somewhat in a daze. "Right."

She leaned her head against his chest and he moved his fingers down to her arm, still tracing patterns absentmindedly. "So what is this, then?" he asked.

"I'm not sure," she answered honestly. "Why don't we just go along with it and see where it takes us?"

He nodded. "I like that idea." There was a pause, then, "I want to take you on a real date, though."

She smirked. "Here? What, in Harry and Ginny's kitchen?"

"Please, I will not have our first date be tainted by such tacky décor," he said. "But soon, I promise you. A real date, with flowers and champagne and polite conversation and shit. I might even pull out your chair for you."

"Sounds fantastic," she said with a giggle. His fingers continued their trail down her arm until his thumb hit the raised, ropey flesh of her scar. He froze, and she looked down at where he was touching her. The 'd' of 'Mudblood'. She looked up and saw remorse etched into the very lines of his face.

"Granger..."

"It's okay," she said.

"No." He shifted slightly so he could look her straight in the eye. "I have a lot of pride. You know that."

"I do."

"But I need you to know, right now while I'm naked in bed with you and already down the black hole of sincerity, that I'm sorry for not… For not stepping in that day." She tried to pull away from his grip, to tell him she understood, but he held on firmly. "There are so many mistakes I've made that I regret, but this is one of the ones I regret most. When I saw you having that nightmare back at the cottage, I couldn't help but think…" His breath caught. "I couldn't help but think I could have prevented it."

"I've forgiven you," she said honestly. She knew he regretted it, she knew it the night it happened when she saw, between bouts of excruciating pain, two tears falling down his cheeks while his aunt tortured her.

"I wish I could have been braver," he whispered as she kissed his jaw gently. He paused, then elaborated: "I wish I had had someone like you to teach me how to be braver."

* * *

"I think something's up between Malfoy and Hermione." Harry leaned back in an office chair next to Ron's desk and prepared himself for his best friend's reaction.

Instead of an explosive burst of anger, Ron simply frowned. "What makes you say something like that?"

"I live with the two of them now, and they're… Well, they're chummy."

Ron unwrapped one of the many sweets he kept stashed in his desk. "I knew that. Look, mate, it's as odd for me as it is for you to see them being friends, but stranger things have happened."

Harry took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. How was he supposed to tell Ron that he'd seen Hermione sneakily kiss Malfoy on the cheek while they were making their morning tea? How he'd come home to find a pair of women's panties that were definitely not his wife's on the stairwell, and how it took a stunning spell from Ginny to stop him murdering his ferrety boarder? How was he supposed to explain that his best mate's ex-girlfriend was dating _Malfoy_?

"Look, Ron," he said. "I think it's more than just friendship between them."

Ron stopped mid-chew. "I'll kill him," he said bluntly.

"Malfoy?"

"Well, I'm not exactly going to hex Hermione," he said, his voice growing angrier. "Have you seen them together? Do you know this for sure?"

"No," Harry lied. "But there's little things, you know? He makes her dinner every night, sometimes they sit real close on the couch, and she gives him these _looks_ …"

Ron narrowed his eyes as he contemplated Harry's words, but seemed to decide they meant nothing. "I don't know, Harry. Maybe you're reading into it too much. I really don't think Hermione would fall for Malfoy, no matter how good of friends they were. She's way too bloody smart for that."

Harry swallowed and decided it might be better for Ron to ease into the situation. He'd leave it alone for now.

The door to Ron's office swung open and Regina, the head of Auror recruitment, stepped in. She was stern as ever with her hair cut as sharp as a blade and her pointy black pumps that could easily pierce a man's chest. She pursed her lips. "One of the trainees in charge of feeding our prisoners has reported back a request by the Brown woman."

"What's she want now?" asked Ron, who was now in a foul mood.

"She's requested to speak with Draco Malfoy."

Harry frowned. "I thought she was adamant about speaking to us and Hermione."

"She was up until this morning. I discussed the matter with the other department heads and we think this could be an opportunity."

"Wouldn't that be rewarding her request? We've got a delicate power balance to maintain here."

Regina shifted on her feet, clearly uncomfortable treating someone as young as Harry as an equal. "The other heads and I agree that we've gone too long without any real breaks in this case. Perhaps by heeding this one request we can gather a new lead to follow."

Harry knew she didn't need his approval to carry on with the decision, but given his personal relationship with Lavender, the other department heads probably pushed her to check with him. Ron gave a nod of approval to Regina. "I think we should do it. It'd make Malfoy useful. He's been leeching off Harry this whole time anyway."

Harry shrugged. "I suppose couldn't hurt. I'll bring him in first thing tomorrow morning."

* * *

Draco agreed to speak with Lavender firstly to confront the woman who killed his mother, but secondly because he was dying to get out of Grimmauld Place. Cabin fever was beginning to settle in and he was getting antsy. Even Hermione was beginning to get irritated with his constant pacing and wishful looks out the window. She begged Harry to let her come along with them to the Ministry and he finally caved; obviously years of friendship with Hermione still hadn't made him immune to her sneaky way of getting what she wanted.

She got up early to get ready for the day. Draco woke up to see her making that dopey open-mouthed expression in the mirror as she tried, unsuccessfully, to line her eyes symmetrically. "Makeup, Granger? Really?"

"I haven't seen people in weeks," she said with a deep blush.

Had it really been weeks? She could have told him they'd been there for three days or three months and he would've believed it. He really was rubbish at keeping track of time. "What time is it?"

"Half past eight. You should get up. We leave soon."

She wore dark maroon robes and he chose plain dark blue ones. She eyed him up and down before giving him a small nod of approval. Harry escorted them both through the Floo and the moment they hit the floor of the Ministry Draco took in a deep breath of the air. It was new, not fresh but _different_ , faintly lemon-scented from the past night's mopping. There were people all around them, people dressed in different colors, people with varying voices, talking about things that were trivial and unimportant, but he longed to listen to their mundane conversation. They'd only been trapped for a few weeks, but it only took a few weeks to forget what reality felt like.

"Where's she being held?" asked Hermione.

"She was at Azkaban, but we brought her back here to keep a better eye on things." After the war Azkaban was divided into two sections: one with dementors for serious offenders and one without for those who committed smaller crimes. Still, just stepping onto the prison grounds was enough to feel soul-crushing despair and Draco was glad they didn't have to visit.

He felt his hands beginning to shake as they took the elevator up to the Auror offices. Hidden from Harry by another employee packed into the small elevator, Hermione grasped his hand and squeezed gently. He squeezed back.

"You'll be fine," she whispered.

"Of course I will," he said with false haughtiness. She rolled her eyes.

The Auror offices were strangely quiet. Each and every one of the other Aurors was waiting for Draco to arrive. Hermione dropped his hand and followed silently behind him as Harry led them through the desks and to the interrogation rooms. Draco's throat was dry and he tried swallowing several times before asking Harry in a raspy voice if she was already inside.

"She is," Harry answered. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out Draco's wand. "We won't be in there with you, so you can have this back. For now."

Draco reached out, grasped his wand with greedy fingers, and immediately felt his blood warm and his skin tingle with magic. He'd been deprived for too long.

"We told her five minutes. After that we're coming in. Remember—no using magic unless absolutely necessary. You _cannot_ harm her," Harry said. "Got it?"

Draco nodded. "Got it."

Hermione touched his arm gently and smiled. "We'll be just out here." He nodded again and with a deep breath, grasped the cold metal doorknob.

What he found inside was not what he expected. He'd had extensive time to imagine Brown, and in his mind he pictured a fierce woman with angry eyes and an evil sneer. Instead he saw a defeated mess of a human. Her head was drooped down, her hair matted and greasy.

"Brown?" he asked. Her head jerked up. He did a double take: her previously smooth white skin was marred with so many scars he hardly recognized her as human, much less as a former schoolmate of his. Greyback had got her bad and he had to wonder how she even survived. Thick scar tissue made one of her eyes droop lower than the other. Her eyebrows were bare in certain places, her ear was missing a piece, and there was a snag in her upper lip where a chunk had probably been torn out. His heart hurt for a moment, feeling intense sympathy for this woman who had everything robbed from her, but then he remembered his mother and all empathy left his body.

"You came," she said.

He tightened his grasp on his wand and stood at the door, not wanting to sit anywhere near her. "I did."

She looked him up and down, her gaze full of distaste and hatred. "Good. I wanted to tell you to your face how good it felt to finally take your fucking mother's life."

It took him one and a half seconds to barrel at her, grasp her shirt collar with one fist, and jab the tip of his wand into her neck with the other. "Fuck you," he spat. She hardly flinched. Remembering Harry's warning not to curse her, he pushed her away and let her fall hard onto her metal seat. He wiped his hand on his pants.

"What, is touching me too dirty?" she laughed. "Doesn't seem to bother you when you're around Hermione, though, does it?"

He thought about Hermione waiting for him just outside the door. He needed them to think he hated her, otherwise she would remain a target. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"You think we're stupid? You've spent every day of the past two months with her."

"For work," he spat. "You must be delusional if you think I enjoy her company."

Lavender shrugged. "What we saw in the papers suggested otherwise."

"I can assure you that while I no longer harbor prejudice against Granger, I certainly have no personal inclinations towards her," he said, trying his best to say her name with as much disgust as possible. "Makes no sense to me why you'd hurt her anyway. Isn't she supposed to be your Gryffindor princess?"

"An eye for an eye," she answered.

"Makes the whole world blind."

She leaned in. "Some people deserve to be blinded."

"And you'd make _Granger_ your collateral damage? After you already… After you took my own mother?" He gripped his wand again. Would they be angry if he just cast a simple _Crucio_? A short one, just enough to make her scream?

"Tell me, Malfoy, how many people have you killed?" Lavender asked, her voice dripping with loathing. Somewhere in her scratched neck a vein throbbed. "I remembered you at Hogwarts. I thought you were just another bully, I waved Hermione away whenever she came back to our dormitory crying over something horrible you told her. I never once thought you capable of what you turned into, and yet here you are. You bear the same mark as the people who killed my friends. You stood by the man who did this to me." She pointed at her disfigured face, her finger trembling. "So how many people, Malfoy?"

He didn't answer her and she pounded a fist on the table. "Tell me!" she demanded. "Tell me how many people you killed!"

"I don't know!" he roared, now standing, his body leaning over the table and snarling over her disfigured face. "I never performed the killing curse, if that's what you're asking!" He forced himself to shut up, telling himself that he owed this woman no explanation. "My sins were judged by the Ministry and I have been absolved. I've forgiven myself."

Lavender sneered and leaned backwards. "I'm _so glad_ you've been able to forgive yourself, Malfoy. The rest of us? We haven't forgotten. We remember, and we aren't going to let you forget that your people _ruined_ us. We don't get to move on. We're damaged goods."

"There are more of you?" Draco asked, trying not to let the guilt settle in. This woman was deranged, he reminded himself, and he was here to gather information.

She gave him a disparaging grin. "We're not done with you," she whispered. "This is just the calm before the storm."

"You miserable bitch," he hissed.

She cackled, again reminding him of his Aunt Bellatrix. "Tell our dear Hermione to watch her back. We've got eyes everywhere, Malfoy. And I really do mean _everywhere_."

Before her could press her to ask what this meant, the door swung open and Harry beckoned for him. "Come on."

Lavender's demeanor shifted completely upon seeing Harry. She tried to get up from the table but she was chained to her chair. "Harry!" she pleaded. "Speak to me, come talk, I can show you what we've done! Bring Ron, he would be so proud! Hermione will understand she shouldn't waste another second with this filth!"

Draco raised his wand again but Harry pulled him out of the room. A nagging voice reminded him that those were the very words he used to describe Hermione years ago, and he felt guilty when she grasped him with concern. "Are you okay?" she asked, rubbing his arm with her thumb.

"I'm… Fine," he said with a small shake of the head. He turned to Harry. "Do you need me to tell you what she said?"

"No need, we recorded the entire thing."

Draco flushed with anger. "You didn't warn me you'd be recording."

"Sorry," Harry said with little remorse in his tone. "We wanted an honest conversation."

Hermione pulled Draco into a chair before he could grow angrier. "That wasn't fair, Harry," she said.

"Many things aren't fair." He looked at the pair of them and sighed. "I'll get you a cup of water."

Once he left Hermione pulled Draco's head onto her shoulder. "What did she say?"

"Lots of things…" He murmured. He tried to tell himself that Lavender was insane, but he knew her anger was at least half warranted. She had been so purely revolted by him. "Hermione?" he asked.

"Hm?"

"I'm so sorry. For everything."

She rubbed his back absentmindedly. "I know you are."

He pulled back and looked gratefully down at her. "You never tell me to stop apologizing. You just accept it."

She turned her head to the side and looked at him seriously. "You have many things to be sorry for. And I don't mind forgiving you however many times it takes."

His heart hurt as he lowered his head back onto her shoulder. He would never run out of reasons he didn't deserve her.

* * *

Hermione went first through the Floo back to Grimmauld Place. Draco pulled Harry aside before he could follow her. "Wait," he requested.

"What is it?"

Draco shifted on his feet nervously. "I was wondering… I'd like to have my wand for one more day."

Harry frowned suspiciously. "What for?"

Draco momentarily considered giving up on his idea right then and there. He really didn't want to admit to Harry what his plan was, but then he remembered Hermione's words to him earlier that day, and he set his pride aside in a way he only did for her. "I want to do something for Hermione," he muttered.

Harry blinked in surprise and then shook his head, a small smile playing on his lips. "Merlin, Ron is going to kill someone. You've got it bad, mate."

 _Mate_? Since when were they anywhere near friendly terms? "I… Look, I'm already at a low point here, asking you if I can use my own bloody wand. Don't knock a man while he's down."

Harry considered the request. "Just for tomorrow, and Ginny has to be with you the whole time you're using it."

"Fine," he agreed, knowing there wasn't going to be a better offer. "Thank you," he added as an afterthought.

"I should give you an obligatory warning, though," Harry added. "I _will_ kill you if you break her heart. Hermione has been broken in so many other ways, and there's only so many times someone can shatter before they can't be put back together again."

Draco nodded, even though he didn't need this warning. He knew better than anyone what it felt like to be on the brink of permanent destruction.

* * *

 **A/N: Woot thank you for 500+ reviews! Y'all are so fabulous, please keep it up!**

 _ **Review question: What are your thoughts on Lavender? I find it fascinating to imagine what type of pain one must go through to go from being a "good" person to a "bad" one. Is she justified at all? Perhaps only in her feelings, but not her actions?**_


	26. It Had to Be You

_a/n: sexy times lie ahead, along with so much fluff it makes me sick. I tried to un-fluff it but no matter how much I re-wrote the scene, Draco insisted on being cute. Sometimes the characters just take control, you know?_

 _songs: it had to be you/frank sinatra_

 _i put a spell on you/annie lennox_

 _crazy in love (remix)/beyonce_

 **Chapter Twenty-Six: It Had to Be You**

* * *

Hermione Granger was frustrated. While Harry was at work, Ginny and Draco had been scampering around the house all day, diving into rooms and conspiring in the old Black ballroom (which the Potters used mostly as a storage space). Hermione hadn't yet managed to catch one of them alone, and when she did yell out questions to them, they only gave her teasing smiles and ignored her.

But finally, in the mid-afternoon, Hermione caught Ginny as she was exiting the bathroom on the lower floor of Grimmauld Place. It wasn't especially difficult to trap a pregnant woman when she has to pee three times as often as anyone else.

"Damn it," Ginny cursed under her breath as Hermione cornered her, arms crossed. She'd promised Draco she wouldn't get caught.

"Something's going on."

"No shit, Sherlock."

Hermione gasped indignantly. "Don't be rude!"

Ginny smirked and wiped her hands on her pants. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"You and Malfoy have been locked in the ballroom all afternoon. Something is going on."

"So Malfoy was right," Ginny said loftily. "You haven't been able to dismantle our silencing charm."

"I hate you."

Ginny squeezed past her friend. "We're holding the inaugural meeting of the Hermione Granger fan club."

"Quit lying to me."

"You're right, that's not believable. We're actually discussing ways to deal with insufferable friends who have to know _everything_ about _everything_."

"Ginny…"

Ginny shot Hermione one last malicious smile before slipping back into the ballroom. "I'm giving him tips on how to go down on a woman!"

" _Ginny_!"

The redhead slammed the door shut and spun around to Draco, who raised one eyebrow in amusement. "Is that what we're doing? I don't think Potter would be pleased…"

"I'd rather get eaten alive by a basilisk than let you anywhere near my vagina," said Ginny smartly.

"Ouch."

She leaned against the door and surveyed the room: a single round table on the left side covered with a dark blue tablecloth. There was a vase in the middle with a jar of white flowers, mostly baby's breath, which she told Draco Hermione loved, much to his disapproval. Mother told him baby's breath was what poor men used to distract from the fact they couldn't afford actual flowers. Above the flowers floated several candles, charmed not to drip wax. Next to the table was a tall tray upon which laid four covered serving platters of food, all of which Draco had prepared (in under an hour thanks to his wand). Ginny looked back over at Draco, who was waiting nervously for her feedback.

"She's going to love it," she said.

Reassurance washed over his pale face and he ran a hand through his hair, sighing in relief. When he was like this—genuinely concerned, his rigid façade absent, Ginny could see what Hermione saw in him. He was less pointy, more human. He was like any other man, completely clueless when it came to women. In the past Malfoy had always been an 'other' to her. She never imagined him as someone she could ever relate to or understand, but perhaps Hermione was right—if you were forced to get to know him, things could change.

"It's nearly five," Draco said. "I'm going to get ready. Can you-?"

Ginny was ready to tell him he could grow a pair and ask Hermione out himself, but the nervous look on his face stopped her. She sighed, chuckling inwardly to herself. "I've got it," she said.

She found Hermione in her room, trying to hem the end of a skirt with a needle and thread.

"Why don't you charm it?" Ginny asked.

"I'm rubbish at household spells," said Hermione. She yelped as she accidentally pricked herself with the needle.

"Looks like you're rubbish at the Muggle way, too."

Hermione glowered. "Did you come in here just to tease me?"

"No. I came to tell you to get dressed."

"What for?"

Ginny winked. "Your date."

A giddy smile grew on Hermione's lips. "What date?"

"The one that bloody lovesick ferret has been planning all day! Come on, now, we have to pick out something nice for you to wear."

"I can dress myself—"

"I know you _think_ you can dress yourself," said Ginny. "But Malfoy has worked all day on his and I'm not risking it."

Hermione harrumphed but relented nonetheless. Ginny deemed her entire closet 'unacceptable' and went to find some dresses from her own collection, which was wasting away during her pregnancy anyway. Eventually they settled on a simple floor-length black gown with silver beads around the neckline, which stooped low but was of no consequence to Hermione, who hardly had much in the chest region to show off. Together the pair spent 30 minutes arguing about makeup until Hermione finally agreed to eyeliner and dark red lipstick.

"I look nothing like myself," she said when they were finished. The only thing Ginny gave her complete autonomy over was her hair, which she braided back save for a few curls that framed her face.

"You look gorgeous," Ginny said, her hands on her hips like a plump fairy godmother. "Are you ready to meet your ferrety prince?"

Hermione turned to her friend nervously. "Ginny… This is nothing extravagant, right? I don't… This thing with Malfoy, it's very complicated…"

After years of friendship, Ginny knew exactly when Hermione's thoughts were spiraling out of control. She placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. "Hermione Granger, have I ever steered you wrong?"

"Well there was one time you encouraged me to proposition Neville—"

"Have I ever steered you wrong while _sober_?" she corrected, wincing at the memory of the time she drunkenly thought Hermione and Neville would make cute babies.

Hermione sighed. "No."

"Never did I think I would be escorting you to a date with Malfoy in my own home, but there are several things in life I never imagined happening, and I've learned not to doubt the mysteries of the universe," Ginny waxed poetic. She opened her arms dreamily as if welcoming the universe's plan. Hermione snorted.

"Okay, I get it. I'm overthinking it."

"That you are, my friend. That you are." Ginny extended an arm. "Shall we, then?"

"We shall."

* * *

The moment Ginny opened the door to the ballroom at Grimmauld Place, which previously had been full of Black family memorabilia, unpacked boxes, wedding gifts, and other miscellaneous junk, Hermione audibly gasped. Shocked, all she could do was giggle, hand over mouth, like an insane person. "This is insanity," she said as she laughed.

Draco, who was nervously waiting inside, froze. "It is?"

"No, no, I mean… This is so much. This is _crazy_. No one has ever done something like this for me…"

"Ah, well, no one could ever match my romantic endeavors," Draco said smugly. He extended his arm. "May I escort you to our table?"

"No, but you can walk next to me and marvel at how I'm able to walk all on my own without an escort," she said sarcastically, but still with a smile.

"You ruin everything, you feminist swot."

"I had no idea you even knew what a feminist was!"

Before she could sit down (in a chair she pulled out all by herself, thank you very much), Draco held out a hand to pause her. "Wait," he requested softly. He looked her up and down, pausing briefly at the exposed sliver of her chest and her unusually darkened lips. "You look beautiful."

Hermione blushed and looked down, instinctually rejecting the compliment. "I look silly. Nothing like myself."

"I _do_ prefer you the regular way," he conceded. "But changing it up every once in awhile is nice."

She smiled. He was dressed up as well, in a dark gray button-down with a forest-green tie and black pants. His hair was carefully combed over to the side. Hermione thought he also looked better the regular way, but this change… Well, she certainly wasn't complaining. He was handsome. Smart. Dashing, even, but she'd never say it to him out loud.

"Don't get used to this," she told him.

"Nor you this," he said, sweeping his hand around the elaborate room. Hermione took in the details: twinkling lights on the walls, a record player in the corner, a wooden square on the floor… Oh, no.

"Is that a dance floor?" she asked, paling.

"It might be."

"I hate dancing."

He pouted. "I plan this all out for you, and you won't dance with me?"

"How long _did_ this take you?" she asked, remembering he didn't have his wand. "Is that why Ginny was with you? Did she do all the magic?"

"Actually, no," Draco said, reddening slightly. "I, er… Well, I sort of begged Potter to let me use my wand today to do all this. He only agreed if Ginny was here."

Hermione's jaw fell open. "You begged Harry?"

"Shut it," he grumbled.

"I think that's a bigger romantic gesture than anything else here," she said with a giggle.

"You're the worst."

She leaned over and grinned. "I suppose I will dance with you, then."

He brightened. "You will?"

"Just one dance."

"Four."

"One."

"Six."

"That's not how negotiating works!"

He smirked. "Is it not? No matter, I think I'll change your mind later."

Leaning back in her chair, Hermione marveled at the man before her. He had promised her a date, but she didn't expect _this_. She certainly didn't expect him to care enough to beg Harry for something.

He began serving the food he made for her—no elves, just him. She imagined going back in time and telling her thirteen-year-old self that the boy she punched in the face would one day cook and serve her dinner from scratch. She imagined her thirteen-year-old self would punch her present self in the face at the very idea.

"Draco?" she asked, still imagining the scenario.

"Yes?"

"What would your younger self have said if you told them where you'd be in the future? That you'd be here, right now?"

Draco's face darkened. "Why would you ask something like that? You know the answer isn't pleasant."

She recoiled. "Sorry. I was just thinking about it… You don't have to answer."

"No, it's fine. I would rather not think about what my younger self would say. It would likely be full of obscenities and ignorant ramblings."

"I have another question then," she said as she bit into the first dish—some sort of delicate, savory puff pastry that was heavenly. "When did you stop hating me?"

He pondered. "I don't suppose I ever hated you."

"No? You just tormented me for the fun of it?"

He shrugged weakly. "Sort of, yes. Why else do young boys do cruel things except for entertainment? I suppose I was also jealous."

" _Jealous_?" she laughed. "Of what? My winning personality? My stunning looks?"

"Of your happiness," he said simply. "And your grades, of course. My father never forgave me for letting a muggle-born beat me in marks." He opened the bottle of wine that was sitting on the tray and poured them both a glass. "When did you stop hating me?"

"The day we went to the squib shelter."

He frowned. "That wasn't my finest moment."

"But it was the first time I saw _you_ ," she said, recalling the raw frustration she saw in him that afternoon, the sparks that flew angrily from his wand. "The real you. And I didn't hate that one as much."

She smiled at him and he smiled back, short but sincere. He never held a smile for very long; it was as if he were afraid to be happy for more than a few seconds. She tried her best to keep the conversation light, but soon enough it turned to what happened with Lavender the previous day.

"Was she horrible?" Hermione asked.

"More deranged than anything," he said. "Something was deeply wrong with her. She hardly seemed human anymore."

Hermione remembered hearing Lavender's name among the many others who were admitted to the mental ward at St. Mungo's after the war. There were countless ones: Susan Bones, Angelina Johnson, Zacharias Smith, even Neville. All of them found help, but there were a few who couldn't escape their demons. Percy was still institutionalized, probably gone past the point of help. Some days he was lucid, but other days he rambled like a possessed man. Ron had to stop visiting his brother for a few months because it was starting to drive him mad just to visit.

It was this reason Hermione never shared the extent of her own mental health problems. Everyone struggled with them, and hers was never as bad as some of the others'. She was lucky she handled it well on her own, though—in the early stages of her panic attacks and nightmares, she could see herself becoming easily swayed to pursue revenge.

"Lots of us were like her at one point," she told Draco quietly. "We all lost ourselves for a little. Some of us just never found reality again."

He nudged at his food with his fork. "I don't blame her," he said, eyes cast downward.

"I don't, either."

"I just don't want you to be hurt in their mission to get to me."

She scoffed. "I'll be fine. Don't get all heroic, now."

"Living with three Gryffindors takes its toll," he said dramatically. As they ate, he moved his hands to his lap, hidden under the table, and she could tell he was fidgeting with something.

"What're you doing?"

"It's a surprise," he said.

"Tell me."

He groaned. "Can you let me be spontaneous, please?"

"I hate spontaneity," she said flatly.

He brought his hands back up, one of them closed into a fist. He looked supremely uncomfortable. "I have a gift for you. But before I give it to you, I want you to promise me you will never tell a living soul that I did something this thoughtful for you."

Her eyes sparkled playfully. "I'll never understand why you don't want the world to see your soft side. It's much more pleasant."

"I have a reputation to uphold," he said defensively. "Now do you want your present or not?"

She had to admit she was intensely curious to see what he had to offer. She held out her palm and he dropped the item onto it: a small gold pendant in the shape of a four-pointed star hanging on a thin chain. It was delicate, subtle, beautiful. She smiled up at him. "I love it."

"It's not just a necklace, though," he said in a rushed tone, trying (and failing) to appear casual about it. "I have one of my own, you see." He pulled a chain out from under his shirt, where a similarly shaped pendant hung. "My mother gave me this when I was young. She told me that whenever she held her hand to her heart and thought of me, it would burn.

"After the attack at the cottage, when we were separated, I had an idea. So I created another necklace similar to mine and performed several very complex charms—you can thank me later for my magical brilliance—so the necklaces would be connected."

"What do you mean?" she asked, fingering the necklace curiously. The metal was smooth and cold between her fingers.

"Whenever one of us grabs the charm and thinks of the other, the others' charm will burn. It's a way to know the other is alive and well if we're separated."

"A protean charm," she whispered, still staring at the charm.

"Among others," he said. Her face was blank and he nervously awaited her verdict on the gift. She flipped the necklace over several times, a knot forming in her throat. It was a deeply thoughtful gift, certainly more thoughtful and meaningful than she'd ever expect to get from _him_. It was almost _too_ meaningful and immediately she fell down a thought spiral—did this mean things were serious, did he love her, was this real?

She couldn't think of the proper thing to say, so she blurted: "What does this mean?"

He stared, eyes wide. "What does it mean?"

"Yes."

"I—Well, I suppose it means I want to make sure you're alright should we ever be separated in the future."

She looked up at him, meeting his gaze, and saw how anxious he was. She loosened. "It's very thoughtful," she said softly.

A small smile graced his lips. "So you like it?"

"I do," she said decidedly. She _did_ like it. "So if I touch it…"

"And you think of me."

"It'll burn?"

He nodded. "Feel." He grasped his and suddenly the necklace warmed between her fingers. She marveled despite knowing exactly how the magic worked.

"Wow," she whispered. "I did this for Dumbledore's Army back in our fifth year, except on coins. I was inspired by the Dark Mark."

He recoiled. "I didn't—It wasn't meant to be—"

"I know," she said reassuringly. "I love it."

He smiled. "Would you like me to put it on you?"

"No, no, I can do it," she said, fixing the clasp behind her neck. He shook his head, amused by her stubborn independence.

For the rest of dinner Hermione felt the weight of the necklace like a brick on her chest. She was acutely aware of its presence—a physical reminder of whatever they had between them. The past two and a half months consolidated into a small charm. It made it real and tangible, and it scared and excited her at the same time. A scrap of metal to remind her that no matter what happened in the future, there was a moment in time that Draco Malfoy, former Death Eater, cared enough to want to burn his thoughts about her onto her skin. There was a time in her life that she brought a broken man into the light, and he was grateful to her for it. She wondered, for the briefest moment—was this the reason she was attracted to him? Because he was a project she was fixing? Did she appreciate _him_ , or the challenge of unearthing this new version of him?

A pit grew in her stomach but then he brought out the dessert he made—chocolate lava cake—and she was distracted once again.

When they finished eating, Hermione remembered why she never wore form-fitting clothes to dinner. She sat up straight, hoping her bloated belly wasn't sticking out. This was the part of being with a man she hated—feeling the need to impress him.

"Ready to dance with me?" Draco asked with a teasing sparkle in his eye that made her relax.

"No."

"You promised."

"Did I?"

He crossed his arms and pushed his lower lip into a pout. "I went through all this trouble, you know…"

Hermione let out a long, exaggerated sigh. "Fine."

Instantly chipper again, Draco stood and glided over to a Muggle record player that had been hiding in the shadow of the far corner. He lowered the needle and immediately a familiar song began to play.

Her hand flew to her mouth. "How do you know about this song?"

He gave her a mysterious shrug and held out his hand, which she accepted. He pulled her up and into a position she knew he had probably practiced over and over in this youth at balls and parties.

 _Why do I do just as you say?_

 _Why must I just give you your way?_

 _Why do I sigh? Why don't I try to forget?_

One arm curled around her back while the other held on to her hand gently, warmly. He led her as she stumbled over her feet, giggling as she went, disclaiming over and over that she was a terrible dancer. He didn't seem to mind, he even hid his wince when one of her heels accidentally stomped onto his foot. He dipped her playfully, making her screech, then pulled her in close, placing both arms around her waist.

 _For nobody else gave me a thrill_

 _With all your faults, I love you still_

 _It had to be you, wonderful you_

 _It had to be you._

The music came to a wavering end and they stopped swaying, their arms still around one another. He smiled down at her and she swore she felt her heart, for the first time, actually jump. No, she decided, she didn't like him because he was a project, or something broken she could fix. This, whatever it was, was very, very real. The way her breath caught as he leaned in and kissed her gently let her know it was undeniably real.

He pulled away but still kept his arms around her. She tilted her head to the side. "But really, did Ginny tell you about the song?"

"Harry, actually."

She leaned back, surprised. "You just called him Harry!"

"I did not!"

"Did so!"

"Granger, don't ruin this moment."

She scoffed. "Your pride ruins you, did you know that?"

"So I've been told."

She pulled herself out of his hold, looked back at the record player, then at him. "It was my parents' song."

"Oh?"

"When I was younger, they would play it after they put me to bed and they would dance in the living room. Some nights I would sneak out of my room, sit at the top of the stairs, and watch them."

"Do they still dance?"

"Sometimes," she said with a sad smile, remembering when she first saw them dance again after restoring their memories. "My dad has a bad back now, so dancing isn't so easy."

"I listened to the song a few times just to make sure Potter wasn't fucking with me," he said. "I could relate to it, you know. _Some others might not be mean or cross or bossy_ —sound like someone?"

She giggled, unable to argue. She wanted to kiss him. She wanted to do more than kiss him. She wanted to treasure this moment in time in which Draco Malfoy was a sappy romantic.

He leaned in and tucked her hair behind her ear. "Granger, you have no idea how much I tried not to like you."

"Oh really?"

"But I couldn't help it."

She winked. "Couldn't resist my charm?"

He winked back, pulling her in smoothly. "Among other things."

Warmth tickled her throat as she blushed. With a sly smile she reached out and grasped one of his hands, then jerked her head towards the door. Realizing her insinuation, his eyes darkened and he followed eagerly.

She led him into her bedroom this time, not his, and kissed him once before facing the opposite direction to undress herself, still bashful despite knowing he'd seen it all before. He touched her shoulder and she jumped.

"Sorry," he murmured against her ear, making her shiver. "May I?"

She nodded slowly and stood still as a statue as his fingers carefully unzipped the back of her dress, pushed down the straps, and let it pool around her feet. The cold evening air washed over her torso, drawing up goosebumps. He kissed her neck and she bit back a small moan. He trailed up her shoulder, nipping her neck, reaching below her ear where he sucked on her earlobe lightly and reached his hand forward to her chest where he cupped her breast and squeezed.

Hermione spun around and then it was fast: his shirt tearing off, one of the buttons snapping, his belt coming undone and then forgotten momentarily as Draco's mouth moved to her breasts, making her throw her head back, her mouth open in a silently straining 'o'.

Before she could forget, she threw up a silencing spell and then returned to her mission of stripping him of all his clothes. She enjoyed how he moved over her—aggressive but always testing the waters before diving in. She could tell he got off knowing she was enjoying herself; he was always looking up at her, gauging her reactions, changing techniques accordingly.

He was by no means especially muscular or large, but she enjoyed his figure, the way his arms locked around her, straining as he leaned down to kiss her. He had a nice arse too, but she would never tell him that. It would go to his head.

He slid into her with a hiss and she squeezed her eyes shut, wondering if she'd ever get used to this feeling of fullness. He traced her eyelid with his thumb, waiting for her to nod before moving, slowly at first, then rushed.

Halfway through she rolled them over to be on top, enjoying the feeling of control. Ron used to complain about this when they were together, lamenting how she always had to have all the power, even in bed, but Draco didn't seem to mind at all. In fact, he shuddered slightly in pleasure and his eyes squeezed shut, making her smirk. She moved slowly, and when she finally reached release, she unconsciously grabbed the locket hanging around her neck. Draco practically growled when she did this and then grasped onto her sides to flip them over again. He thrust one, two, three times more, hard, then finished as well with a hoarse cry of her name. _Hermione_.

After a moment's recovery he rolled out of her and to the side. She noted how rarely he said her given name and how much she liked hearing it roll of his tongue. Maybe hearing it so sparingly was what made it special.

She leaned over and settled her head on his chest, making a small noise of contentment when he wrapped his arm around her. He was warm, soft. She reached up and touched his charm, which was still slightly hot.

"Granger?" he murmured, his voice sleepy.

"Hm?"

"I like you."

She looked up at him and cocked an eyebrow. "You like me, or you _like_ -like me?" she asked in a sing-song voice.

"Shut up," he said, closing his eyes. And then, after a moment: "I like-like you, Granger."

"Hermione," she corrected softly.

"I like-like you, Hermione."

She smiled against his chest. "I like-like you, too."

* * *

 **A/N: In the spirit of fluffiness, I'll ask a fluffy review question: _What's the best date you can think of? Real and/or hypothetical stories are welcomed._ Mine would be a picnic in an open field with a bunch of animals nearby to cuddle with. Hmm... maybe I don't want a cute date so much as I want to cuddle a bunch of puppies... **


	27. The Marks We Leave

_songs: can't help falling in love with you (cover)/ingrid michaelson_

 _meet virginia/train_

 **Chapter Twenty-Seven: The Marks We Leave**

* * *

Draco woke up to the smell of vanilla and the feeling of hair bristling his nose. He kept his eyes closed, absorbing it all slowly. Her skin, soft, pressed against his. His right leg in between hers, her thighs still slightly sticky. Her breath against his forearm.

His left forearm.

His eyes snapped open and he tried to pry his arm from hers. He always tried to sleep on his left side so she wouldn't see his mark, but he certainly wasn't thinking straight the night before. He tried to lift his arm but she held on tight.

"Don't," she said. She was awake.

"I…"

"It's okay." She shifted over to face him. "I don't like it, but it's okay."

He was suddenly acutely aware of the part of his arm marred by the cursed mark. It felt wrong to be naked with her, the very woman the mark was created with the intention of killing. He tensed. "It's not okay."

"It's out of your control."

"It wasn't at the time."

She frowned, reached out, and traced his eyebrow. "When are you going to stop beating yourself up over sins I've already forgiven you for?"

He breathed out his nose, short. "When I forgive myself. Which is, to say, never."

Hermione sat up, pulled on a robe, picked up her wand, and flopped back down next to him. She placed his arm on her lap and traced the edges of the Mark, careful not to touch the actual scar. "Do you trust me?" she asked.

"I feel as if that should be obvious by now."

She smirked at him in a way that made his heart tighten—it felt wrong to like a single person so much. "I have a test for you, then. Close your eyes."

He hesitated. "Why?"

"I thought you trusted me!"

He shifted uncomfortably, not wanting to go back on his word. "You're not going to hurt me? Or do something evil, like color my hair blue?"

She laughed. "Is that the worst you could imagine?"

"It's certainly up there."

"No, I won't dye your hair. And it won't hurt, either. Well, it might sting a bit, but if you can't handle it then you're a baby."

With a short sigh he eased the tension in his arm and closed his eyes. He heard her shuffle and then there was a sharp sting on his forearm like a needle prodding his skin. Instinctually he jumped backwards, eyes wide open. "Granger!"

She was holding her wand like a quill, as if about to etch an essay on his skin. "You're supposed to trust me!"

"I do, but that bloody hurt." There was a small black dot on the part of his arm that stung. "What are you doing?"

"I _was_ going to give you a tattoo," she huffed.

"A what?"

"A tattoo. It's like a Muggle version of a Dark Mark, except there's nothing evil associated with it. It's just for fun."

He narrowed his eyes. "Muggles get Dark Marks for fun?"

"They're not Dark Marks, they're whatever you want them to be. My mum has a small butterfly on her ankle from when she was nineteen and wanted to feel grown up."

"I don't want a butterfly on my arm," he said, wrinkling his nose.

"I'm not going to give you a butterfly," she said impatiently. "I promise you'll like it, and if you don't, I can get rid of it."

"Is it going to keep stinging like that?"

She threw her hands up. "You're an absolute wimp, do you know that?"

"Fine, fine! Do what you wish, as long as I can remove it if I want."

She rolled her eyes. "You _are_ a wizard, remember? I don't think you'd have much trouble removing a Muggle tattoo."

Hesitantly he shut his eyes again and surrendered his arm to her. The stinging sensation multiplied as she worked, but after awhile it faded to a dull throb. A few times he opened his eyes just slightly to watch her work. Her head was bowed, hidden, but he could imagine the way her face looked under that veil of hair: her eyes narrowed and her mouth scrunched up in deep focus.

After what felt like an eternity of pain, she finally sat back with a sigh and proudly announced: "You can open your eyes!"

With caution he released his vision, blinked a few times to adjust to the light, and looked down. He hardly recognized the arm as his own—his Mark was barely visible, now buried within a meadow of black flowers, sketched with simple lines and haphazard shading. The flowers were drawn in a particular pattern around the skull; it took him a moment to realize she arranged the tattoo in shape of the constellation Draco, with flowers in place of stars. The head rested on the left side of his arm, the body curved to cradle the Mark, and the tail drifted its way over to the right. The curse prevented anyone from covering the Mark itself, but she had done such a beautiful job that he hardly noticed the scar.

Hermione watched him carefully, biting her lip nervously. "What do you think?"

"It's…"

"Wait, let me explain it first, before if you decide you want to keep it," she said hurriedly. "It has a meaning."

He looked at her, his eyes wide, hers anxious. He wanted to tell her that it was incredible, that he loved it, but she kept talking before he could say anything.

"The first two flowers on the head of the dragon are Amaryllis. They symbolize pride, or what most people know you for when they first meet you. I put those first because they symbolize the Malfoy family—you lot really are a prideful bunch," she said with a small smile. "The next two on the head are Dahlias, which stand for elegance and dignity, which are the two qualities I've seen your pride morph into. It makes me happy to witness your humility while you still maintain dignity—even when you feel like you don't."

She traced her finger along the tattoo to the body of the constellation. He kept his breath still, listening to her presentation with utmost attention. "These next six, the ones closes to your Mark, are marigolds. They symbolize pain and grief, which I think goes without explanation."

Her touch moved to the base of the tail. "The next one is a dandelion, which means overcoming hardship. Following that is a rue—remorse, repentance." She circled the second-to-last flower with her finger repeatedly, drawing goosebumps up from his skin. "Then the aster, which means love."

Her gaze was locked on his arm, and with a voice softer than a feather, he asked: "And the last one?"

She looked up with a gentle smile. "I saved the best for last. It's a Narcissus flower. For your mother."

His heart burned with an overwhelming amount of love for the woman before him. She twisted a strand of hair nervously on her finger, examining his face. "What do you think? Like I said before, I can remove it if you want. It's not a big deal, really. I won't be insulted. I tried to make the flowers masculine but I understand if you don't like it…"

He ran his fingers over the tattoo and exhaled, allowing a smile to bloom on his lips. Without a single word he grabbed both sides of her face firmly and kissed her, hard, and she fell into him, giggling slightly. "I love it," he murmured between kisses.

"Good," she said, exhaling. "I'm glad."

"You are the best thing that has ever happened to me," he said quietly, removing his lips for a moment to smooth the sides of her cheeks with the pads of her thumbs. "I tried so hard to get rid of the damned thing. I burned, I sliced, I tried every spell out there, but nothing worked."

"This makes it better?"

"You make it better."

He leaned in again to kiss her again deeply, pushing her backwards onto her pillow. He nudged at her robe, pushing it to the side, determined to show her how grateful he was.

He knew for absolute certain then that he loved her, but he didn't know how—or if—he should say it. Love was a dangerous word, something he previously understood only as a card to play in life's game. It was too soon to play that card, so for now he would hold it close to his chest and wait until the time was right.

* * *

Throughout his stay at Harry and Ginny's home, Draco became accustomed to a regular flow of guests in and out of the house. Gryffindors really were a social bunch—Weasley constant stopped by without invitation or precedent, sometimes just to steal food out of the kitchen and leave; Lovegood could sometimes be found in the back patio, staring up at the sky; Longbottom and his girlfriend, Susan Bones, came to visit a few times, as did some of Harry's Auror friends or Ginny's Harpy teammates. Draco was under strict instruction to remain hidden whenever there were guests in order to preserve the secrecy of his and Hermione's location.

That day, Hermione told him Andromeda and Teddy were coming to visit. "Harry told them about us, so we can go say hello," she said cheerfully, as if Draco couldn't wait to visit with his long-estranged aunt who had been disowned by his family. Draco had seen Andromeda only two times since the war: once at a memorial service for those who fell in the war, and once at St. Mungo's when he was visiting his mother. They exchanged nothing but polite nods, neither one knowing how to navigate the strange divide in their family.

But his uncomfortable protests were useless: Ginny dragged him downstairs to re-introduce him to his aunt and cousin the moment they arrived.

Andromeda, who still gave off the vibrancy of youth despite her age, smiled at him gently. "I heard you and Hermione were seeking refuge here."

"We are," he said stiffly, wishing Hermione, who was upstairs in the bathroom, would hurry up so he wouldn't be alone with these strangers.

"Are Harry and Ginny treating you well?" Andromeda asked.

"They are." His focus shifted to the boy holding onto Andromeda's hand. His cousin. His blood. Teddy, who now would be around seven or eight, had a squished button-nose, bright eyes, and turquoise hair. He looked at Draco reproachfully.

"Who are you?" the boy asked.

"My name is Draco," he said, trying at a smile. He felt supremely uncomfortable, especially with Ginny looking on eagerly, as if expecting a joyful family reunion.

"He's your cousin," said Andromeda.

"Cousin?"

"His mummy was my sister," she explained.

Teddy frowned, considering this. "Oh."

"That means he's your family."

"I thought my family is all dead." Draco's heart dropped at the frankness with which Teddy spoke of his dead parents. A boy his age should never be on such familiar terms with loss.

At that moment Hermione peered down at the stairs and squealed. "Dromeda! Teddy!"

The elder woman smiled warmly. "Hello Hermione!" Teddy ran up to Hermione and threw his arms around her. She picked him up and twirled him in the air, making Draco smile absentmindedly. She was good with kids. Perhaps she could teach him that skill.

"Harry's off at a charity event," Ginny explained to Andromeda as she put together a plate of fruit and crackers for her godson.

"Oh, too bad. Teddy wanted to show him his new broomstick skills." There was a toy broom beside the fireplace, a few chips in the broomstick's paint.

"Draco loves to fly," said Hermione, nudging Draco in the waist. "You could show him."

Teddy sized him up. "You fly?"

"I do," he said in the friendliest voice he could muster.

"You don't look as strong as Harry, though."

Ginny and Hermione both sniggered, and he sent them piercing glares. "Bugger off."

"Draco!" Hermione chastised. "Language!"

"Right, sorry," he muttered. He looked over at Hermione, who was waiting expectantly, and bent down in front of Teddy awkwardly. "I'd love for you to show me your flying skills, Teddy."

The boy considered this offer, then nodded and grabbed his broomstick. With a flourish Draco could only assume Harry taught the boy, he mounted the broom and kicked off.

The toy only rose a few feet in the air, but Teddy still zipped around the living space like a pro, not once colliding with anyone or anything in the room. Ginny smiled as if having a child on a broom flying around her house was perfectly normal. "You trust him?" Draco asked her incredulously.

"He's never so much as broken a lamp," she said. "He's a natural on a broom."

Andromeda sat next to Draco, folded her hands in her lap, and watched her grandson. "He reminds me of how you were at that age."

Draco blinked. "Oh?"

"What, did you think I forgot about you?" she laughed. "I remember you whizzing through the Manor like a tornado. Your mother never did forgive you for crashing into that portrait of your great-grandfather."

He tried smiling at her, wondering how a human being could be so forgiving so easily. He remembered her visiting when he was very young, and then her visits stopping abruptly once she married Ted Tonks. "Your aunt has chosen not to be part of our family anymore," was the only explanation he got from his parents.

It was odd to think he had family left. Once his parents died he hadn't even considered that there was anyone else out there to know. He'd forgotten that this young boy, orphaned by the men and women he fought with, shared his blood. And wanted to show him his fantastic flying skills, too.

"How much longer will you be staying here?" Andromeda asked.

"Indefinitely," answered Draco with a sigh.

"Perhaps I can bring Teddy over more often. It might be good for you to get to know him. He needs more family in his life."

Draco swallowed heavily, looking at the pure glee and joy on the young boy's face. "Am I the family you want for him?"

Andromeda gave him a knowing smile and a wink. "If Hermione trusts you, I do as well."

Draco looked over at Hermione, who was trying to wrangle Teddy back to the ground so Ginny could offer him some crackers. These were his people now: bushy-haired know it alls, boys-who-lived and their wives, turquoise-haired children. It felt good. Right. These were his people.

"I would love to be part of his life," he said in complete honesty.

Andromeda and Teddy only stayed for an hour or so before Teddy began whining to go home and they left. Draco collapsed onto the couch next to Hermione, exhausted. Teddy was a ball full of inexhaustible energy and it took quite a lot of manpower on Draco's part to keep him entertained.

"How did you like him?" asked Hermione.

"He was fun," said Draco. "Albeit exhausting."

She nodded knowingly. "I love him, but I hope I don't have children like that. I simply don't have the patience Andromeda does."

"I can't imagine your children being anything but perfectly well-behaved," said Draco.

"My strategy is to never tell them that broomsticks exist," laughed Hermione.

The fireplace roared again, but instead of it being Harry, who was expected home any moment, Weasley stepped into the family room. He was even redder-faced than usual and sporting an idiotically large grin.

"Ron?" asked Hermione.

"Hey, Hermione!" He turned and also greeted Draco with an usually happy 'hello'. "Where's my sister?" he asked.

"Upstairs."

" _Ginny!_ " Ron hollered, making Draco cringe. The man was as uncivilized as they came.

Ron's female counterpart came clambering down the stairs. "What do you want?"

"Hey," Ron said, still smiling giddily. "I've got fantastic news."

"You finally found a girlfriend?" Ginny asked.

He scowled as Draco sniggered. "Bugger off," he said. "No, Percy's back home."

Ginny gaped. "What?"

"He's been doing better, apparently, and last time Dad went to St. Mungo's to visit they said he's ready to come back home so long as he stays with family. You know, so he can re-acclimate to the regular world."

Ginny smiled wide and ran to hug her brother. "Oh, that really is fantastic!"

Hermione made a small noise of excitement as well and clasped her hands together. "This is wonderful news! Have you seen him yet? Is he better?"

"No, I haven't been home yet, I just got the letter from Mum today but it sounds like he's much better. She's going to hold a big dinner at the Burrow this Sunday to celebrate. You'll come, right?"

Hermione's face fell. "I'm not supposed to leave here," she said.

"Nonsense, we'll all be there to watch you. You'll be fine."

Hermione looked over uncomfortably at Draco. "What she means to say is, I'll be here alone," he said gravely. "And that can't happen."

Ron's grin faded awkwardly. "Oh. Right."

"Well maybe Ma—Draco could also come," Ginny said hesitantly. "Like you said, we'll all be there to watch, and I think we all can trust him now."

Hermione nodded vigorously in agreement. "I'll be with him the whole time. Oh, please, Ron, I miss you all so much. It would mean the world to get to see your parents and George and Bill and Charlie and everyone…"

No one bothered to ask Draco how he felt about spending an evening with the entire Weasley family, but he probably didn't have a say in the matter anyway. Ron looked at Draco, considering the idea, and then nodded. "I'll have to talk to Mum and Dad and Harry, too, but we can probably make it work."

Hermione squealed and hugged Ron close. Draco felt a surge of jealousy, but tempered it by reminding himself that Weasley could hardly eat a meal without spilling onto his shirt.

"Thank you _so_ much," she said. "I've been dying to leave this place."

She'd been dying to leave this place… Where he was. But that didn't mean she was dying to leave him?

He rubbed the skin on his left forearm, still pink and raw from being tattooed. For the first time in years he felt brave enough to wear a short-sleeved shirt, and it was because of her. No, that couldn't be what she meant. He really had to stop overthinking these things.

* * *

Draco was working on his Prophesieve when Hermione came into his room for bed. She was wearing an extra long t-shirt, her hair pulled back into a loose ponytail. He greeted her with a brief glance up from his work. "Hi, there."

"Hi." She sat on the floor next to him and swirled her finger in the dark blue mist that rose up from his basin. "What are we working on tonight?"

"I'm enchanting the stages of the moon on the sides of the basin to include astrology as part of the prospecting process," he said. "And don't bother telling me how stupid you think astrology is, because I don't care."

She grinned. "You know me well."

"You can get to bed. I'll be finished in a few minutes."

"No," she said, leaning back against the bedframe. "I like to watch you work."

She watched him carefully as he etched the phases of the moon into the stone, listened as he chanted divination spells along the way. As she stared she fingered her locket absentmindedly, making his burn, but he didn't stop her. He liked the feeling.

"Have you gotten much further with the Prophesieve?"

"Actually, yes," he said. "Last I tested it, I was able to conjure up a hypothetical memory—it was fuzzy and distorted and brief, but it was there."

"Wow," she whispered. "That's incredible."

"I just have to get the Divination right in order for it to be perfect…" he bent back over and kept charming. She drew up her legs, rested her chin on her knees, and watched with careful fascination.

He was almost done working when she spoke up again. "Did you know I haven't had a nightmare since we came here?"

In fact he hadn't noticed, but now that he thought about it, she'd spent every night in his bed and hadn't had a fit once. "That's good," he said encouragingly.

She rubbed the locket harder. "I never told you what my nightmares are, did I?"

"No," he said, setting the Prophesieve aside. "But you don't need to tell me."

"I want to," she said. She looked up into space. "They varied, but there were three most common ones. The first, of course, was being tortured by your aunt. I could feel so vividly her knife against my neck, or carving into my arm, or flaying my back and stomach."

He'd noticed the long, thin scar tissue on her torso, but didn't say anything about them. He had scars enough to match hers. Most of them did.

"The second one was when Hagrid carried Harry out and we thought he was dead. I'll never… I'll never forget how hopeless I felt in that moment. I didn't care if I lived or died."

He'd also felt hopeless when he saw Harry's limp body. The boy had been his last hope of escaping a life under Voldemort.

Hermione took a shaky breath. "The last one… The last one happens the most often, even though it's not nearly as bad as the other two. It's from when Ron left Harry and I during our hunt for the horcruxes. I relive the moment he walked away and left us in the forest. That's the one you saw."

Draco frowned. "Weasley abandoned you?"

"For a little bit. He came back eventually, but…"

Then he remembered the night he walked in on her nightmare, how she was calling Weasley's name into the darkness, begging him to come back. "That arsehole," he whispered.

"Yes, he was at the time," Hermione admitted. "But we all make mistakes."

It was true, and his sins were far worse than any of Weasley's. But still, to know the memory had plagued her all these years… It angered him.

She touched her locket again. "I have a question."

"Go ahead."

"You didn't… You didn't give me this because you _plan_ on leaving me, right?"

He frowned deeply and shook his head. "Why would you think that?"

"Because its whole purpose is to communicate when we're apart. Why would you give me that if you weren't planning on leaving at some point?"

He balked. He thought he was an overthinker, but she definitely put him to shame. "Of course it doesn't mean that."

"Then why…"

"Why give you a thoughtful gift?"

She frowned. "I didn't mean it like that."

"I certainly don't _intend_ on abandoning you, but the whole reason we're stuck in this godforsaken house is because someone wants to harm you as revenge for what I did. So if for whatever reason I have to leave you to ensure your safety, then I will." Hermione's body stiffened and he saw water welling in her eyes. Shit. "Well don't go and cry."

"I hate this," she said. "Why is it that now you chose to be the brave one?"

"It's your fault I'm a bloody martyr now," he said, only half-joking.

"Sometimes I wonder what this even is," she said quietly. "When you think about it, we hardly know one another, and yet… Sometimes I feel like you know me better than the people I've been friends with since I was a child."

"I think the same," he admitted. "Sometimes I think the moment you step outside this house you'll run as fast as you possibly can and never look back."

"I couldn't," she reassured him. But then her eyes hardened again and she looked down at her locket sadly. "But I need to tell you something."

"Hm?"

"If you leave me… If you abandon me like he did… That's it, Draco. I can't do that again, I really don't think I can."

He swallowed hard. He knew he didn't want to leave her, but if it came down to it, he wouldn't have a choice. If it came down to it, he'd leave to make her safe. His jaw clenched tight at the idea and he tried to cast the thought aside.

"Come to bed?" he asked, holding out his hand. Hermione took it and let him lead her onto the mattress, then up over his torso, a leg on either side. She sighed into the air as he kissed his way up her stomach to her breasts, licking and nipping as he went, committing the taste of her to memory. She tasted of hope and light and he drowned in it. In her.

* * *

 **A/N: Disclaimer that I got part of the tattoo idea from a textpost on Instagram. It was something about Draco getting tattoos of Narcissus flowers around his Dark Mark. I originally was going to have Hermione tattoo the Draco constellation, but then I saw that post, and I combined the ideas!**

 **Review question: Do you have any tattoos/plans to get one? I have a small one on my hip, and I have plans to get a Harry Potter one soon. I kinda wanna get 'all was well' with a wand and a lily flower.**


	28. The Prophesieve

_songs:'100 years'/five for fighting_

 **Chapter Twenty-Eight: The Prophesieve**

* * *

He'd done it.

It had taken over two years, countless failed noxious concoctions, and three second-degree burns, but Draco Malfoy had finally finished his Prophesieve. After his date with Hermione, Harry decided (along with prodding by Ginny) to let him keep his wand, and he'd finally been able to do his final pieces of work and finish the Prophesieve. Or, at least he thought it was completed. He had something that resembled a finished product and he knew all the parts worked individually. Now all he had to do was insert a real memory and see what it gave him in return.

However, as he sat there in front of the delicate product of his hours and hours of labor, he couldn't bring himself to do it. Tendrils of white mist tickled his nose, tempting him to try, but the very idea of it being successful was simultaneously invigorating and terrifying. If it didn't work, it meant his countless hours were for naught. He'd perfected it in every way he knew how, so if it didn't work, he wouldn't even know how to fix it. But if it _did_ work—then he'd have created something immensely powerful, and now that he was faced with the prospect, he wasn't sure if he wanted that power. He'd seen what that kind of power could do to people.

On the other hand, completing the Prophesieve was the culmination of everything he wanted to accomplish. It was the type of work that he'd always wanted to do, if he only had a better reputation and the opportunity to do more. How could he not use it? How could he deny himself the indulgence in this one thing he could finally be proud about?

Or maybe, just maybe, it was because he was petrified at the idea of seeing what the future could hold. Because if he dipped into this device, and it actually worked, he might see something he didn't want to.

With a heavy, indecisive sigh, Draco tucked away the Prophesieve under his bed and decided he would wait and come back to it later.

* * *

Since Weasley had come bearing the news of his brother's recent recovery from actual insanity, Hermione had been floating on cloud nine. She glided around the house in a lighthearted way Draco hadn't seen since they first arrived. She talked constantly about how much she missed seeing her 'family', which is what she called the Weasleys despite them not being blood relatives at all. He tried not to take it personally that she seemed so excited to see them, to not interpret it as him not being enough, but everything with her made him feel like an insecure child. Some mornings he still thought she'd wake up and start laughing at him, saying it had all been some elaborate prank.

But she never did. She stayed up with him at night and read while he worked on the Prophesieve until he was ready for bed. In the mornings she'd make breakfast and in the evening he'd make dinner. They were a regular domestic couple, only they were stuck in another domestic couple's home.

Then Saturday, the night before the big Weasley dinner, Harry came home with troubling news.

"We caught another one last night," he told them after he hung his jacket on the coatrack. "A White Hat."

"Who was it?" Hermione asked. Draco sat straight up in his seat, eyes narrowed. The Auror's leads had been bleak.

"Another foreigner, this one from Australia of all places. Theodore Nott said the bloke was stalking outside of his antique store for three nights in a row past businesses hours, so he finally called us. The guy had a white hat in his pocket."

Hermione sighed heavily. Draco knew she had hoped that if they went a few weeks without incident that Harry might let her free. It seemed as if her hopes were dashed, at least for the time being.

"Did they say why they're here?" asked Draco, his tone stony.

"Something about revenge coming soon," Harry said dismissively. "It was utter nonsense, so we're not taking it especially seriously. We're actually investigating the possibility that these people are communicating through Muggle ways, you know, the Internet or something like that."

"That makes a lot of sense," said Hermione. "Especially if it's international. Did you get anything else from him?"

"He told us how he joined the group. Quite a story, it was. Apparently he was approached by Lavender who said she could provide the justice his dead parents deserved. He was muggleborn, both of his folks were murdered. The way he spoke… it was just like the Death Eaters. Reverent, almost obsessive."

Draco swallowed. "They're trained well."

"We'll see how well. He seemed easier to crack under questioning than Lavender."

"This doesn't change tomorrow's plans, right?" Hermione asked nervously.

Harry shook his head. "We'll just have to pay extra attention. Constant vigilance, right?"

That night Draco was in bed before Hermione for the first time. She crawled in next to him and waited for him to extend his arm before snuggling herself into the nook of his shoulder. "Done working for tonight?"

"My mind is elsewhere."

"Where?"

"On the bastard who tried to hurt Nott."

She fell silent. "Oh."

"Not to worry you," he said. "We'll be safe tomorrow."

She could see his forearm from this angle. The skin was finally starting to heal, scabbed slightly, but less red and swollen. She'd been quite proud of her work and beamed when Ginny and Harry both complimented her addition to his mark. Draco was more than pleased, and now was brave enough to roll up in sleeves in front of other people.

"You're not nervous for dinner tomorrow, right?" she asked.

"For a house full of Weasleys?" he snorted. "Nervous, no. Dreading it? Slightly, yes."

"They're good fun," she promised. "You'll like Charlie. He's the one who works with dragons. And Astoria will be there."

"So we won't be the only strange pairing?"

She frowned. "I wish you'd stop with that."

"With what?"

"Those comments. Like there's something wrong with us."

Draco snorted. "There is, isn't there?"

She jerked away from his shoulder and he knew then that he'd fucked up. "Granger—"

"Don't Granger me," she said snappily. "I want you to know how much it hurts when you say that sort of things."

"I just say it to lighten the mood."

She crossed her arms. "I don't think it's funny."

"But it's true, isn't it? We're not exactly normal, or conventional, or even acceptable, really." He thought he was being logical, but the tears in her eyes told him otherwise. Shit, shit, shit, he hated when she cried.

" _I_ thought we were fine, I suppose I didn't realize you believed us to be unacceptable."

He groaned and tried to reach out for her hand, but she pulled back. "Granger, think about it. We've only been with each other, and it's been fantastic. But the moment we go out there, the moment we open this up to other people… that'll all change, won't it?"

She considered this seriously. "I don't think it would change."

"You can't say that for certain."

"I'm not exactly the type to put much stock in what others think."

"What, are you saying I'm shallow?" he asked.

"No! I'm saying that you're making assumptions about what's going to happen when we go back into the 'real world', and I don't like that! It's like you have no faith in who I'll be outside of this house." She got up before he could stop her.

"Where are you going?" he asked exasperatedly.

"I'm going to take a shower," she muttered. "Clear my mind."

"Fine," he said, equally irritated at how sensitive she was being. The moment she shut the door behind her he sunk back into his pillow and groaned. He'd forgotten how infuriatingly stubborn she could get. He heard the water running in the bathroom and wondered if he should wait up and apologize or just go to bed and hope she got over it. As he considered the merits of apologizing, he remembered the Prophesieve waiting under the bed. At least a dozen times throughout the day he'd had the urge to run upstairs and just use it to get it over with.

He looked back at the door Hermione had stormed out through. He should just do it now. It would be a good distraction anyway.

Carefully, Draco extracted the Prophesieve from beneath the bed and fingered the edges nervously. He thought about what memory he should insert. Freshest ones worked best, as they weren't tainted by the errors of human memory. With shaking hands, Draco took his wand, extracted with precision the memory of the past fifteen minutes, and deposited it into the white mist. The device glowed bright blue and emitted a slight hissing sound, which he knew to be a good sign. He took a deep breath, mentally hoped for the best, and dove headfirst into the Prophesieve.

Immediately it was dark, and he was falling without restraint. He tried to open his eyes but it was just as dark as when they were closed. Then there was a slight jerk and when he opened his eyes, he was looking through his own perspective, but he wasn't in control of his body. He was a passive observer from the inside.

He looked around: he was sitting at a restaurant with Hermione at the table across from him. She was wearing a powder blue sundress and her hair was in a bun. She was beautiful.

As they ate, the people sitting around them turned, believing themselves to be inconspicuous, whispering to themselves: " _That's Hermione Granger with Draco Malfoy."_

 _"_ _How disgusting."_

 _"_ _Doesn't she have some self-respect?"_

 _"_ _Why is he even out here?"_

 _"_ _How does he think he can just go on like this after what he did?"_

He could see she was trying her best to pretend she couldn't hear. Her shoulders were stiff and her smile strained. He wanted to reach out. Comfort her. But he was only an observer, he could only sit in his body and wait to see what his dream-self would do.

"I'm sorry," he heard himself say. "I know how hard it is."

"I don't know why you keep apologizing," she said, her tone clipped. "It's not your fault people are so rude."

"I just wish-"

"I wish you would stop bringing it up every time we go out. How are we supposed to move on if you keep acknowledging others' ignorance?" She sighed and picked at her salad halfheartedly.

Overwhelming guilt sank in. He wanted her to be happy, and he couldn't give that to her.

 _"_ _Really, it makes me so uncomfortable that he's even in the same room as me."_

Hermione spun around so fast in her seat that he was surprised she didn't get whiplash. "Excuse me," she hissed at the woman who stage-whispered the rude comment. "It makes _me_ uncomfortable that you keep making disparaging comments about my boyfriend while I'm well within earshot. If _you_ had any self-respect, you'd mind our own business."

Her coming to his defense should have made him feel better. But it didn't, it only made him feel guiltier. He'd been right- she couldn't even go out with him without being made miserable.

-o-

The scene before him faded to black and he felt that falling sensation again before being deposited into another scene. He was at a bar now, sloppily throwing darts at a levitating dartboard. Theo Nott was next to him, holding two bottles of beer. Draco threw a dart that missed the board completely, whizzing past the head of another patron who glared.

"Watch it, asshole!"

"Hey!" Theo barked. "He's a heartbroken man. Have some pity."

Draco shook his head and took one of the bottles from Theo. "Don't want pity. Want her."

"If you want her, then maybe you should go back and tell her you didn't mean it and you want her back."

"No…" Draco could tell he was slurring. He was trashed. "She hated me. Hated being with me. Too much work… Being with a Malfoy…"

"She didn't hate being with you, she hated how much you hated yourself."

Draco waved his hand dismissively. "Same shit."

Theo grimaced and clapped his friend on the back halfheartedly. "You'll get over her, mate. There's other fairies in the forest."

"Don't love other fairies," he groaned, falling back onto a stool. "I love the bushy fairy with the shrill… fucking… voice. Love _her_."

-o-

With a pit in his stomach, Draco was dragged into the next scene. It was dark, warm, and stuffy. He was in some sort of closet, pressed against what felt like a giant pillow.

"Draco," he heard her whisper. Her. Hermione.

He blinked, adjusting to the lack of light, and saw that he was not pressed against a pillow, but a poofy wedding dress.

They were married?

"Help me with the zipper," she begged, breathless. He became acutely aware of the hardness in his pants. They were quite obviously in the middle of something. "We've got ten minutes before Charles' mum will start asking questions."

Charles?

"Fuck Charles' mum," he heard himself hiss between nips at her neck. He ignored her when she told him not to leave marks. "Fuck Charles. Fuck your wedding. You're mine, you're fucking _mine_."

He finally released her zipper and her dress pooled at their feet and he stepped on it, swallowing her protests with his mouth. He entered her without pretense, this was quick, they didn't have time. She gasped and moaned as he pushed her up against the closet wall, her nails dragging over his shoulders.

"Say you're mine," he growled into her ear as he thrust.

She didn't, but he came anyway, gripping her hard, pretending this was _their_ wedding, not hers.

-o-

Draco hardly had time to process what he'd just experienced before he was dumped into another scene: this time in his house, Hermione crying heavily on his couch.

"What's wrong?" he asked her, but she was sobbing too hard to answer. He reached out, rubbed her back, and offered her a tissue. When she blew her nose he noticed the ring on her finger. She was still married. He checked his own bare finger. Not to him.

She hiccupped a few times, then looked at him with heavy eyes. "I lost it."

"Lost what?" he asked. "Your keys? Charles is a dick if he's making you this sad over losing your keys again-"

"No," she sobbed again. "The baby. I lost the baby."

His chest turned to ice. He pulled his hand back and sat very still. "Baby?"

She nodded, her whole body shaking. She tried to meet his gaze, but couldn't do it. "I think it was yours," she whispered. "Six weeks old. Died in the womb."

He opened his mouth but there were no words for the empty shock in his chest. She'd been pregnant with a child, with _his_ child, a manifestation of the both of them.

And it was gone before he even knew it.

"Hermione…" he whispered, tears now falling down his cheeks. "Hermione, why didn't you tell me…"

"I can't do this," she whispered, still refusing to look at him. "I came here to tell you, face to face… Draco, I can't do this. We made a choice to our relationship and it's not fair to keep this up. I'm not a cheater, I'm not an adulteress. This is not… This isn't what my life is supposed to be!"

She was almost hyperventilating, but when he tried to hold her, she pushed him away. He knew she was right. They ended things for a reason- because he wanted her to be happy. She was happy with Charles, just not happy enough, and he didn't have the courage to turn her away when she came back to him, looking for more.

"Maybe it's a good thing the baby isn't here," she said, and he balked.

"Don't say that-"

"No!" she cried. "Draco, I have to make a choice. I know you love me, but this thing between us was never meant to work. There was too much history. I love my husband. This… whatever this is, it's over."

He didn't try to stop her. He let her go, just like that. Too much of a coward to fight for what he wanted.

-o-

Draco wanted nothing more than to escape the Prophesieve, but there was no getting away from the barrage of vignettes. He was at a press conference now, standing before a crowd of flashing cameras. He listened to himself deliver a speech: he'd published his first textbook on experimental magic, and it had immediately been placed on the required reading list for all fifth years at Hogwarts. He listened to himself thank a long list of people in his life who'd helped him along the way, his colleagues, his boss, the wizarding community in general for giving him a second chance, his wife, and his son.

He saw them sitting in the front row: a pretty woman with blonde hair beaming at him proudly, holding the hand of a young boy, likely around seven. They were smiling. He was smiling back. He was successful, with a family. He was happy. Or, he seemed happy, at least.

Then he saw her in the back of the room: bushy hair pulled back into a ponytail, eyes watching intently, mouth opened just slightly. Hermione. Her eyes were older, ringed in slight wrinkles, but just as bright. He looked down at her stomach- swollen. Pregnant. But it wasn't his baby this time, somehow he knew this.

He shifted his gaze back down at his wife and knew he was happy, but he could be happier. He looked back up, but Hermione was gone.

-o-

This one was the last one, he could feel it. He was sitting at a dining room table this time. The room was blurrier, heavier, somehow he knew he was older. His wife was cooking at the stove, her gray hair pulled back into a pun. She turned around and he saw the deep lines of age on her face- they must have been around 70.

There was a newspaper in his hand, and he looked down. It was open to the obituary page.

"Waffle, Draco?" he heard his wife ask.

But he couldn't answer. The bottom half of the page was dedicated to various photos of her next to a long paragraph about her life. Hermione's life.

In cursive, it was captioned: _Hermione Jean Granger, Mother, Wife, Leader, Heroine. September 19, 1979- November 2, 2054_

He saw photos of her as a young girl, ones from Hogwarts, one at her wedding day- wearing the same dress he fucked her in, one holding two babies, her daughters. One at her desk in the Ministry. One at a birthday party, surrounded by friends and family.

Not a single one with him.

-o-

Draco felt himself get sucked backwards again, but this time he was hurtling through whiteness, falling until finally he felt his feet hit the solid floor.

The moment he hit reality again, he leaned forward on his knees and vomited onto the floor. His brow was slick with sweat as he panted. What _was_ that? That couldn't be his future. That was fucking tragic, miserable for both of them. He scrambled to think- maybe it was the memory he chose, because they fought it in. Maybe it was some fault in his magic, or with the orb, or with his Divination charms, he'd never been good at those…

He cleaned his vomit and his stomach turned again. She'd died. Without him being a part of her life. He wanted to be a part of her life, he didn't want her to die without him. All he wanted to do was see her, hold her, feel her alive in his arms.

At that very moment she walked through the door, and despite his overwhelming nausea he leapt up and practically tackled her against the wall, kissing her hard.

"Draco!" He pulled away and cupped the sides of her face firmly. She looked pleasantly surprised, eyes wide and cheeks flushed, a smile on her lips. She was wearing a robe and her wet hair was pulled into a clip. Gods, she was beautiful. Alive. Warm. Here. His.

The words came out before he could help it.

"I love you."

The smile slid off her face and the surprise turned to panic. "Draco-"

"No," he interrupted her, feeling twice as queasy. Why did he say that? "It's okay, you don't have to say anything. I just… I thought about everything, and I needed to say that. Out loud. To you."

She blinked rapidly, trying to find her bearings. He released her from his grip against the wall and kissed her gently on the forehead. "You don't have to say anything," he reassured. He would rather her say nothing than reject him.

"It's just… It's too early and I don't think I could say it so soon…"

His heart hurt at her words but he smiled through the pain. "It's fine," he whispered. "Really. Come to bed?"

She searched his face hesitantly. "You're not angry?"

"Of course not," he said, and his answer was honest. She took his outstretched hand and let him lead her to his bed. It was enough.

* * *

 **A/N: Sorry this update took so long to get out! It's finals season, so I've been insanely busy. I also wanted to say that we're almost at the end of this story—5, maybe 6 chapters left!**

 **Review question: What do you think about the Prophesieve scenes? Is it really a realistic portrayal of what Draco's life might be like? Did he mess up the divination? Was it the memory he inserted? Hmm… We'll see.**


	29. Dinner at the Burrow

**Chapter Twenty-Nine: Dinner at the Burrow**

* * *

Hermione had been floating on cloud nine all week, and even now as she stood washing her dishes in the kitchen, she couldn't help but smile like an idiot. She was going to see them that night—Molly and Arthur and George and Bill and Charlie and even Astoria and Fleur. She was going to seem them all, the people she considered her second family.

She could tell her constant cheeriness was wearing on Draco, but even their small spats couldn't bring her down. She liked Draco, she did, but spending every waking moment with the same person grew tiring, and she longed to see someone— _anyone_ —else. She knew he didn't feel the same way; he seemed far less enthusiastic about spending an evening with the Weasleys. They were starting to bicker more and get on each other's nerves. He had been spending twice as much time on his blasted Prophesieve than normal, claiming he was 'almost very nearly finished'. Despite her reservations towards divination, she was intensely curious to see how the final product would turn out. If nothing else, Draco certainly had a way with magic. He was smart, creative, clever.

He was softening more and more every day, too. Her heart very well near sang when she saw him playing with Teddy on his broom. Was that what women meant when they said they were attracted to men who were good with children? Not to say that she was thinking of having Draco's kids, oh no, but the knowledge that he was good with them… Well, it was nice to know.

But then there was the whole L-word ordeal. He'd said it to her just one night ago after they'd had an argument, and she had been stunned speechless. She wanted to say it back, but she couldn't… It was too soon. Any emotions she was feeling right now were merely chemical reactions, and love was something that had to endure past that initial dopamine high. And how was she to know that Draco really meant it? What if he was just caught up in a moment?

Hermione was so caught up in her own thoughts that she failed to notice Draco sneak into the kitchen behind her, and when he pinched her arse she squealed and dropped a dish on the floor, shattering it.

"Malfoy!" she scolded. He smirked and repaired the dish.

"Sorry," he said in an entirely unapologetic tone.

"What do you want?"

He shrugged. "To talk to you."

She blinked. "Because?"

"Because I want to, do I need a reason?" he said, irritated.

"No, I… It just seems uncharacteristic of you." Since he had said those three little words, he'd been acting extra attentive, and it was beginning to put her on guard. She decided to change the subject. "Are you ready for tonight?"

"No," he grumbled.

"I'm happy you're coming. It means a lot to me."

He sighed and leaned back onto the counter, pushing back his hair in the way he did when he was anxious. She'd learned so many of his little quirks, the way he expressed his feelings: he wasn't the touchy type, especially in front of other people, but in the middle of the night she'd wake up with him clinging to her waist like she was a raft and he was drowning. He still sauntered around the house like a little prat sometimes, but sometimes, when he was talking to Teddy or reading a good book, she'd see his shoulders relax and his eyes soften and he'd look innocent for a moment, like a child. Those were her favorite moments.

"I know it means a lot to you," he said. "But I still don't want to have to spend an evening with a bunch of Weasleys."

Hermione rolled her eyes and then wiped her hands on her jeans, approaching him slowly with a pouty face. "Are you whining, Malfoy?"

"No," he said in a very pouty tone.

"I can think of several ways to thank you for coming."

His frown softened. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," she said, leaning in close, then right before her lips met his, she smirked and pulled away. "But you'll just have to wait and see!"

* * *

The moment Hermione stepped through the fireplace into the Burrow, her heart immediately swelled with joy. She even forgot about Draco, who was nervously following close behind her. The room was so busy she almost went unnoticed, but then Molly spotted her and squealed.

"Hermione!" she wiped her floured hands on her apron and scurried over to embrace the younger witch. "Oh, it's so lovely to see you. It's horrible, what's been going on. But Ron added more wards around the house just for tonight."

"Thank you, Mrs. Weasley!"

Molly turned to Draco and gave him a smile as well, though this one was smaller and tighter. But Hermione could tell she was trying. "Mr. Malfoy, it's a pleasure to have you."

Draco extended his hand. "Draco," he corrected. "And thank you for having me."

"Draco," she said, accepting his handshake. She looked back to Hermione. "I have lots to do in the kitchen, you know how it goes. The boys are out back playing miniature Quidditch with Teddy, if you're interested."

Hermione reached for Draco's hand and squeezed. "Want to go see Teddy?" She knew if anyone there could calm his nerves, it would be the little boy.

"Sure."

Arthur, Bill, Charlie, George, and Ron were all in the backyard, tossing around a kid-sized Quaffle as Teddy flew around them on his toy broom. Hermione spotted Percy sitting off to the side on a bench, watching the others with a blank expression. He looked different than she remembered—there was something cold and distant in his eyes.

When Teddy saw her and Draco, he descended his broom with a wide smile. "Hermione! Draco!" he said happily.

The other men turned and their faces hardened when they saw Draco.

"Hi, Teddy," Draco said as he ruffled the child's hair. He nodded at the rest of them. "Hello."

"Malfoy," Ron greeted, trying to break the tension. Teddy looked between the men and frowned, astute enough to sense the strain in the air.

"This is Draco Malfoy," he said to the others. "He's my family."

Hermione thought her heart might melt right out of her chest. She smiled at Teddy and looked at the others hopefully. Then, with a deep breath, George stepped forward and clapped Draco awkwardly on the shoulder. "Right he is, Teddy," he said gruffly. "Right he is."

"Can he play Quidditch with us?"

"Only if he agrees to be a human Bludger," Ron joked, making Teddy laugh.

"No, I think he'd do better as a Keeper," said Charlie with a wink. "Teddy has a habit of 'accidentally' hitting the Keeper with the Quaffle."

Hermione nudged Draco forward and he looked at her with wide, nervous eyes. "Go," she whispered. "I'll be right over there. I want to talk to Percy."

"Promise you'll still shag me even if they pummel me with the Quaffle so hard I lose an eye?"

She chuckled. "As long as the rest of you is intact, I don't really think the face matters, now does it? Go on, now. Go make friends."

Reluctantly, Draco let go of her hand and made his way over to the grassy clearing. Hermione watched Arthur shake his hand and she thanked the gods that Draco was making an effort, and that her family was kind enough to extend him a second chance.

After making sure all was well with Draco, Hermione made her way over to Percy and sat down beside him hesitantly. "Hey, Percy." Growing up, Harry and the other Weasleys always had a hard time understanding Percy, but Hermione felt a kinship with him. Sticklers had to stick together, right?

The bespectacled man didn't make eye contact. "Hermione."

"It's so good to see you again," she said in the most cheery voice she could muster. Up close she could see Percy's face was pale, his skin nearly translucent, his body much thinner and gaunt. He was dressed in a Weasley sweater that practically hung off his frame.

"It's nice to be back," he said in a measured, robotic tone, as if he'd rehearsed the line.

She fidgeted with her fingers, thinking of what to say. Would it be rude to ask how he was? Obviously, he hadn't been doing well. "You don't want to play Quidditch?" she asked.

"I never liked playing Quidditch," he said.

"Oh. Right."

He sighed. "You don't have to pretend to care about me, Hermione."

She frowned. "I'm not pretending. It really is nice to see you again."

Percy lifted his head and stared over at his brothers as they wrestled Teddy off his broomstick. Hermione watched his gaze move over to Draco, and his eyes turned stony. "You brought Malfoy," he said coldly. "My mother warned that you might."

The hatred in Percy's voice scared Hermione, who chose her words carefully. "I'm sorry if it upsets you," she said gently. "I promise you he's a better man now."

Percy chuckled darkly. "I had really hoped you weren't that naïve."

Now entirely uncomfortable sitting next to him, Hermione stood and brushed off her pants. She had one night with the Weasleys, and she had no interest in spending it miserably. "It was nice talking to you," she said curtly. As she walked away she was acutely aware of Percy's eyes on her back. She tried to shake off the eerie feeling as she went to fetch Draco, but then she saw him deep in conversation with Charlie.

"I have some Silverback scales back at my place. I could bring you some if you'd like," she heard Charlie offer.

"That would be fantastic," she heard Draco respond enthusiastically. "They're so hard to get your hands on and having some would cut hours from my brewing process…"

She smiled warmly and decided to leave Draco alone. It seemed he was doing fine all by himself. She returned to the warmth of the Burrow, where all the women plus Harry were gathered in the living room. Astoria and Fleur both pulled Hermione into a hug. "We're so glad to see you again," Astoria said. "Is Draco here?"

"He's outside with the boys. He'll be happy to see you, though, I think he's overwhelmed by the amount of Gryffindor in this house."

Astoria laughed. "I'm not sure I have much of the typical Slytherin spirit left in me… Nor does it seem Draco has, either." She motioned out the window where Draco was now chasing Teddy around on his broom. Hermione smiled.

"He's a different man."

"And I'm sure you have everything to do with that," Fleur chimed in with a wink.

"I think he just needed the right person to bring the best of him out," said Hermione truthfully.

It wasn't long before Molly called the men in for dinner and Draco returned to Hermione's side. She grinned up at him. "You looked like you were having fun out there."

"It wasn't horrible," he said coolly.

"Admit you like them."

He wrinkled his nose. "I will never do such a thing. The only one I like is Teddy. And even he can be irritating."

Hermione elbowed him in the side. "You're a prat."

He kissed the top of her head innocently and pulled into a seat beside her at the long dining table. Hermione appreciated for the first time the strangeness of the situation. She had countless memories at this table, and never once did she think Malfoy would be sitting there of his own accord, by her side, his hand resting possessively, nervously, on her thigh.

Luckily, Astoria and Charlie sat beside him, which Hermione could tell put Draco at ease. George and Molly were across from them. Once dinner was served, Hermione laughed as Draco watched in horror at how the Weasleys dined.

"Why are they picking off each other's plates?" he whispered out of the corner of his mouth to her.

"It's called sharing," she said as she picked a grape off his plate and popped it into her mouth. He scowled.

"That's barbaric."

Molly leaned over with a falsely cheery smile. "So, Mr. Malfoy—"

"Draco," he corrected again.

"Draco," she said. "Ron tells me you've been training to be an Auror."

"Almost there. Grang—Hermione was my final assignment."

Molly beamed. "I think that's wonderful. Good for you. It shows you've… grown."

Draco's hand tightened on Hermione's thigh and she squeezed it, silently telling him: _She's trying_.

"Say, Malfoy, noticed you haven't had any of your potatoes yet," said George. "Don't think my mum's cooking is good?"

"What? No," said Draco defensively as he speared a potato slice and lifted it to his mouth. Before he could eat it, however, Hermione swatted it out of his hand.

"Don't!" She glared at George, who was grinning mischievously. "What did you do to it?"

"I haven't a clue what you're talking about."

" _George_ ," she warned.

"Fine, I _might_ have charmed it to turn into a slug once it entered his mouth," sighed George.

"What?" Draco spluttered as he tossed the potato aside. "That's revolting."

Hermione, however, smiled and patted him on the shoulder sympathetically. "No, this is a good sign. If George tries to prank you, it means he's accepted you."

"You people are nutty," muttered Draco as he inspected at the rest of his food carefully.

On the other side of the table Teddy was telling everyone about 'Cousin Draco's broomstick tricks', which led to a yelling match across the table about who was the best Quidditch player. Draco even joined in after awhile, debating fiercely with Bill about speed over agility. As they shouted over one another, Hermione noticed Percy sitting quietly at the end of the table. He was squashed between Arthur and Ron and was staring at Draco with pure hatred in his eyes. While everyone else argued and laughed, he sat in silence, his shoulders hunched and his brow furrowed.

Hermione leaned into Ginny, who was seated to her right. "Is Percy okay?"

Ginny shrugged. "He's been a little off since coming back, but the doctor said it's normal. Side effect of the potions he's on. Percy's always been a little more reserved anyway."

Hermione knew this about the most pompous Weasley son, but she never remembered him being so angry. Nevertheless, Ginny was probably right. Mental health was a newer subject of research in the wizarding world, and current potion treatments were experimental at best. Percy was probably just experiencing some odd side effects. She tried her best to shake off the strange feeling she got from looking at him and leaned back in to Draco, who was now trying his best to engage Molly in a discussion about her mashed potatoes.

"They're very fluffy," he said with an unnecessary amount of enthusiasm. Molly began to prattle on about her secret recipe and Hermione tried not to giggle as Draco tried his best to look anything but absolutely uninterested. He drew little circles on her thigh as he mhm-ed and nodded at Molly.

In that moment, Hermione's heart swelled with so much happiness she didn't quite know how to contain it. She could tell he was trying, _really_ trying. He wanted these people to like him, because these were her people. Draco peered at her from the corner of his eye, catching her stare, and winked just slightly, the ghost of a smirk playing on his lips. His fingers interlocked with hers and he squeezed, hard, and then she realized what this feeling in her heart was. It was love. She _loved_ him.

She reveled in this realization for a moment. She wanted nothing more than to tackle him into a kiss and tell him over and over: _I love you!_ But he was busy right now, and she had a feeling they'd have time in the future to talk about it. She pocketed the feeling and decided to give it to him as a present that night, when they were alone.

* * *

After dinner, Draco got caught up talking to Charlie about dragons again, leaving Hermione with an opportunity to be on her own. She walked from the kitchen to the living room to the dining room, joining in on conversations, until she made it to the staircase. It had been years since she'd been up in any of the Weasley children's rooms. Full of nostalgia, she started up the lopsided stairs, stopping to smile at the various pictures hanging on the wall. She went straight to Ron's old room, third room on the left, and was blown away by how much it hadn't changed. There was still a hideous Chudley Cannons blanket hanging off his bed, a pile of laundry that never got folded in the corner, and pictures scattered all over his desk. She picked up the first one—it was she, Ron, and Harry outside the Hogwarts Express before their fourth year (she could tell from their haircuts—it had been a bad year for the boys). She traced over her bright eyes—so young, so excited. So innocent.

"Hey, there."

The voice from the doorway made her jump, hand to her heart. She looked up—it was Harry. "Harry, you terrified me!"

"Sorry," he said, stepping into the room. Ron followed behind him and for a moment she was transported back in time, remembering the last time the three of them had been in Ron's bedroom: the summer before their seventh year, planning their expedition to destroy the horcruxes while also cleaning up the Burrow for Bill and Fleur's wedding. She'd no idea back then just how much she needed to prepare for.

"We were wondering where you'd gone," said Ron.

"And you thought to look up here?"

"You're not friends with someone for this long without developing a skill for tracking them down," said Harry with a wink. He sat on the edge of Ron's bed and sighed. "When was the last time we hung out? Just the three of us?"

"When we were eighteen?" guessed Hermione with a chuckle. "Then Ginny joined in. Not that I'm complaining, of course. She helped balance out the testosterone level in the group."

"I miss this," said Ron as he leaned against the doorframe. "Things were simpler when it was just us."

Hermione shrugged. "Sometimes complicated can be better. Makes life more fun."

Harry gave her a knowing smile. "I noticed Malfoy's getting on well with everyone."

"I made him promise to try his best."

Ron snorted. "And he agreed?"

"Well, you see, I've got these very persuasive lady parts—"

"Shut up, shut up!" Ron yelled as he covered his ears.

"What, like you haven't seen my lady parts before?"

He glared. "I don't want to think about Malfoy anywhere near those parts."

Harry shook his head with a grin. "You really like him, don't you Hermione?"

She took a deep breath and looked bashfully at her feet. The answer was yes, she did like him. A lot, actually. He made her feel challenged, and yet safe, he made her happy, but not in a complacent way. He complemented her, like a puzzle piece she hadn't known she was missing.

"Yeah," she admitted. "I really, really like him."

She could tell it pained Harry somewhat to hear this, but he still smiled supportively nonetheless. "Hermione, I want you to know… If you're serious about him, if you really care about him… Then we support you. Right, Ron?"

Ron seemed less inclined to agree, but after being stared down by Harry, he relented. "Yeah. We just want you to be happy, Hermione."

Hermione smiled broadly at her two best friends, feeling her heart swell with love. "That means a lot to me. I was worried… Well, sometimes I worried that you wouldn't want to be around me as much if I was with him…"

Ron scoffed. "What kind of friends do you think we are?"

"Yeah, Hermione, I think we've been through a lot worse. It'll take a lot more than your prat boyfriend to tear us apart." Harry tossed an arm around her shoulder and pulled her into a hug, and she nearly started crying. She really had missed them. She'd have to start scheduling regular visits with them after this whole ordeal was over and she was out of Grimmauld Place.

"We really should hang out again, just the three of us. Sometime soon."

"We'd better hurry up and do it before the baby gets here," said Harry wearily. "Once that thing comes out, I won't have a minute of free time for a few years. Can you imagine—Ginny _and_ a baby?"

Ron grinned and shook his head. "Come on, now, let's get back downstairs before Mum starts wondering where we've gone."

They descended the staircase together. Hermione had barely touched her feet to the landing when she heard a shriek from the backyard, and then a few more shouts. She turned to the boys. "What was that?"

"Probably one of George's pranks," said Ron with a shrug. Then there were two more yells, these ones frantic, and his eyes widened. "Or maybe not…"

A dark, sinking feeling settled in Hermione's stomach. With a lightning-fast speed she didn't know she even possessed, she raced to the back door, and nearly vomited at the sight she saw before her.

On one side of the yard, Draco was standing alone, wand raised. Across from him stood Percy, his eyes full of revulsion, his wand also raised. In between them was a scorch mark in the grass, the remnant of whatever curse had been cast.

Faintly she heard Harry yell at her to stay back, but he didn't get there fast enough to stop her. All logic flew out the door as she pulled out her own wand, raced to Draco's side, and threw up a shield.

"Hermione," she heard Percy call out to her. "Lovely of you to join us."

"Granger," she heard Draco whisper desperately. "Why?"

From this angle, she saw something that made her blood run cold: standing just behind Percy were two other figures dressed in all white. The truth hit her like a Bludger to the stomach: it had been him. The leader of the White Hats… it had been _Percy_.

"Now put down your wand and come join us on the right side of history," Percy said in an eerily calm cadence. "No one here wants you to be collateral damage."

* * *

 **A/N: Gasp! It was Percy! Actually, many of you guessed this, so maybe not such a gasp! moment. I'm so sorry this update took awhile, I actually didn't have the second half of the chapter written until today. I believe there are four more chapters** **, so… sniff… we're getting towards the end, y'all!**

 **Review question: What's the best thing that's happened to you this week? Mine is that I'm done with my second year of college. Woot woot.**


	30. A Choice

**Chapter Thirty: A Choice**

* * *

Draco couldn't breathe. Every particle of his body had gone numb, frozen by the shock of the last two minutes of his life.

One moment he was trying to explain to Teddy why it wasn't okay to hit someone in the crotch with a Quaffle, and the next Percy was shouting across the lawn from him, waving his wand, scorching a warning blast of fire near his feet. The few Weasleys who were outside scattered in shock—George leapt aside, pulling Teddy with him, Ginny screamed and ducked, and Arthur stood with his jaw hanging open in disbelief. There were screams from the kitchen, where most of the other were gathered. Draco, who had been trained never to turn away from an aggressor, instinctively pulled out his own wand and held it up at the thin, gaunt man across the lawn.

"Weasley," he said slowly, trying to calm him. Percy's thin face was consumed by something Draco could only describe as pure hatred. He knew the look, he had lived amongst it for years of his life: the narrowed eyes, the pursed lips, the flared nostrils. He was far too comfortable with that look, and somehow it calmed him. "Lower your wand."

Percy snorted. "That's not going to happen."

"Percy, what the hell are you doing?" Ginny cried from somewhere behind him. Draco took the moment of distraction to scan his peripheral for Hermione: in a sea of red, he couldn't spot her mountain of brown curls.

Just then the screen door screeched open and there was a cry: "Hermione, don't!" Draco swiveled his head back to see Hermione running towards him, a fierce look in her eye. Before he could say a word she threw up a shield above Draco and then stopped just in front of him, panting heavily. He felt his heart sink. Percy had obviously lost his fucking marbles, how was he supposed to keep her safe?

"Granger," he whispered. "Why?"

"Hermione," Percy called out. "Lovely of you to join us. Now lower your wand and come join us on the right side of history."

Draco turned his focus back on Percy. There was a flurry of movement behind him, but he couldn't quite make out what was happening through the blur of the shield.

"No one here wants you to be collateral damage," Percy continued.

"Oh my god," Hermione whispered out of the corner of her mouth.

"What?"

"Look behind him."

Draco tried again to focus and then he realized what was behind Percy: two more people, dressed in all white. His throat tightened. "Merlin… It was him."

"Put down the shield and step away, Hermione," Percy repeated in a cold, level tone. The threat now became twice as serious to Draco, whose mind was racing.

"Do what he says," he begged the woman in front of him.

"Hermione!" It was Arthur this time, somewhere out of Draco's line of sight. "Hermione, come back here!"

"Step back, Hermione," Ron pleaded. "And Percy, put your wand down, for fuck's sake, what's wrong with you!"

Draco was hurt for a moment that they seemed to only care for Hermione's safety, but it made sense. He was the villain just now crawling his way back to forgiveness, while she was practically their blood.

"I'm not going anywhere until you put your wand down, Percy," Hermione said in a voice that was surprisingly steady. "I know you don't want to hurt me."

The two people behind Percy finally stepped forward and there was another collective gasp from the crowd of shell-shocked Weasley clan. Draco felt his knees buckle when he recognized their faces. The first was Lavender, her matted hair and scarred face just as hauntingly terrifying as when he first saw her in the interrogation room. The second witch was someone Draco never would have guessed to be part of the White Hats.

"Bloody fucking shit— _Regina_?" Harry took four long strides forward before hitting some sort of invisible wall a couple yards away from them, likely a weak barrier Hermione had put up wordlessly.

The tall, thin witch squared her shoulders as she looked at Harry. "I had to," she said in a wavering voice that betrayed her composure.

"You had to what? Betray us? Contribute to this sick game of revenge?" Potter's face was the color of a tomato, his eyes fiery.

"You can forget about calling for backup," Regina said, her voice cracking. "I barred them from the wards here. It'll take at least twenty, maybe thirty minutes to break the wards. And that's after they learn something's happened."

Hermione fidgeted slightly and even though he couldn't see her face, Draco knew her mind was whirring.

"Don't try anything," he whispered pleadingly. "We're up against a werewolf, a highly trained Auror, and a bloody lunatic. Everyone you love is mere yards away. Fucking Teddy is right behind us. You can't risk this, please don't risk it for me."

He heard Hermione sniff quietly. "I can do this."

"No you can't," he said. "It's not worth it. I'm not worth this risk."

" _Don't_ say that," he hissed back at him.

There was a flurry of movement to Draco's left and then he saw Bill running at Percy, wand raised high. There was a scream, a flash of light, and then Bill was unconscious on the patio. Percy had a small gash on his face but it was Lavender who defended her master. She snarled. "He should know better. He's just like me, destroyed by dark filth."

The lawn was silent, every member of the family quieted by either shock or fear. Teddy was crying but Molly was stifling his sniffles, not wanting to draw attention to the boy.

Percy waved his hand at Lavender and she retreated like a well-trained guard dog. He surveyed the lawn and for a moment Draco saw him register the enormity of what he was doing, but in his insanity he managed to push away any guilt. The gaunt ginger man swallowed and squared his shoulders.

"Seven years ago my family was destroyed," said Percy. He hardly spoke up but the lawn was so quiet his voice carried with ease. "I wasn't a good son or a good brother. I was blinded by power and I abandoned my family. By the time I had the good sense to come back, I only had a few hours before my own brother was taken from me.

"And it wasn't just him. Friends were taken. Lives were taken. Children, parents, their futures, all taken. And I use that word—taken—deliberately. Too often we talk about who we 'lost'. But they weren't lost. No, they were _taken_ from us, stolen by men just like the one you welcomed into our home today."

Draco's throat tightened even further and he struggled to breathe. He knew it was a bad idea to come here, and now he'd put not only Hermione's life at risk, but also the lives of everyone she loved. He tried to think of ways to escape: if Regina was telling the truth, sending for help would be useless. It would take a team of three together to take on Percy, Regina, and Lavender, but he had no way of communicating a plan with Potter or Weasley. Any sort of spell that could take out all three at once would also inevitably harm one of the Weasleys, and he couldn't do that. Perhaps if he stalled and kept Percy talking for long enough he could come up with something.

"I didn't kill your brother," he said. Percy's eyes narrowed.

"But you stood by the men who did, and you didn't declare your loyalty to the right side until it was convenient for you. You're a fucking coward and the Ministry didn't give you the sentence you deserved."

Arthur spoke up, his voice soft, as if he were speaking to an infant Percy. "Percy, this isn't you. Please, son, we can get you help. It doesn't have to be this way, you don't have to seek revenge for Fred."

Percy sneered. "It's not just for him. I'm seeking revenge for _everyone,_ so history will know you can't destroy lives and get away with it. That you can't be complicit in murder and then pursue a career as an Auror."

Draco turned his gaze to Regina. "How long have you been involved?"

"Since the beginning."

"Which was when?"

"Two years after the war," Percy answered. "We've been collecting members one by one. It was easier than you'd think. I was involved in a support group for war victims, where I met others equally as hungry for revenge. Eventually my family thought I was going bloody mad and deposited me in the loony bin so they'd have one less problem."

"That wasn't why—" started Arthur.

"Shut up!" Percy squeezed his eyes closed and took a deep breath. "Luckily I had Lavender to take over the basic operations. She kept me updated, carried out orders. We had a plan in mind to carry out a few test attacks before going public."

"Going public?" asked Hermione, unable to restrain her curiosity. This time Regina answered.

"We knew that if we showed the wizarding world what real justice looked like, they would welcome us when we revealed ourselves. Of course people were somewhat upset about the murders, but I've worked at the Auror department for nearly a decade and we've gotten a fraction of the normal number of calls for these recent Death Eater-related murders. No one cares about them. Sure, people act like it's sad, but no one loses sleep over it. In fact, they probably sleep better knowing there's one less evil soul in the world."

Draco's hand quivered around his wand. Zabini and Parkinson—was the world better without them? Would the world be better without him? But then there was Hermione…

"Why Hermione?" he asked. "Why target her?"

Percy sneered again. "Brilliant idea on Lavender's part. We were never going to really hurt Hermione. She deserves nothing but respect and comfort and safety after what she went through. But we wanted to give you a little scare, maybe make you believe we'd killed her or kidnapped her. Make you feel the fear we felt."

"That's sadistic," Draco spat.

"More sadistic than the claw marks across my cheeks?" asked Lavender. "More sadistic than Regina's brother, who was killed by eighteen simultaneous Crucio curses?"

"We decided we'd go for relatives first, so you would feel the pain of losing those you loved. Once that was done, we'd off the guilty party themself. It's your turn now, Malfoy. It's time to pay for your crimes."

Draco's chest tightened and his confidence wavered. It was sick, but he was starting to believe what they were saying. As if she could feel his doubts, Hermione reached up and grabbed her necklace, making the pendant around Draco's neck burn. In a tone lower than a whisper, she muttered without moving her mouth: "When it burns again, go for Regina."

He had no clue what plan she had in mind but there was no one in the world he trusted more. He stared at his former boss tried to imagine the pain that would drive someone to do such sick things.

"Hermione, I'm giving you one more chance to get out of the way," Percy said coldly. "If you don't, I'll have to work around you. I know he's brainwashed you, but he's not a good man. He can't make you happy. There will _always_ be something evil in him."

Draco's pendant burned again and before he could even think, Harry cast a spell behind him, Hermione waved down her shield, and Percy disappeared behind a cloud of smoke. There were multiple screams but Draco kept his head down and ran towards where Regina had last been, careful to check over his shoulders for anyone following. He spotted Regina's bright white robes and fired a stunning spell, which missed. She looked bewilderedly over her shoulder for her aggressor, and upon recognizing Draco, screamed: "He's here! He's coming toward me!"

Potter's cloud of smoke was beginning to dissipate and Percy's red hair was visible above the mist. "Where are you?"

"Left! Go left!" Draco fired another spell but missed again—he was too panicked to focus. Quickly he cast a shoddy disillusionment charm and ran up the hill for higher ground. He saw Potter sparring with Lavender while Hermione and Weasley kept Percy at bay. Arthur was dragging Bill's unconscious body away from the fighting while Ginny ushered Teddy, who was now openly wailing, inside.

All this pain and anger, all because of him.

Suddenly he thought it might be best if he gave himself up to them. It would end his suffering and any future suffering he might cause Hermione. He thought of the Prophesieve and the life it showed him: his past would always taint her future, and she didn't deserve that.

"There he is!" Regina shrieked again. She pointed where he was running up the hill and he cursed. His charm was already fading, leaving his arms and legs visible again. Two spells were fired at once and he fell as the ground below him exploded. When the dust cleared he saw Regina on the floor, Ginny pointing her wand from far away, gripping her pregnant belly with one hand and her wand with the other. Had he more time, he would have properly marveled at that woman's guts.

In the distance he saw Ron on the ground, stunned and bleeding from his forehead, while Hermione turned to help Harry with Lavender. Percy was making his way up the hill, looking for Draco.

"Up here," Draco called out, standing. If he was going to do this, he was going to do it right.

Percy's face was blank as he sent out a Cruciatus curse, which Draco blocked, followed closely by a stream of fire, which narrowly missed Draco's jacket but lit the dry brush to his right. The heat of the flames somehow eased him.

"Come on, now," Percy taunted. "Make this easier for everyone and drop your wand."

"You were never going to hurt her?" Draco asked as he blocked off another spell, this one bright purple.

"Hermione? Never. Well, maybe a small punishment for her foolishness in trusting a Death Eater," Percy chuckled. "Sometimes we all need a good knock in the head to make sure we're thinking straight."

This threat of even the slightest pain to Hermione was what finally lit the fire under Draco, both literally and metaphorically. His training suddenly clicked again in his brain and he began shooting off spells in the strategic way Antonio taught: Defensive, stun or disarm, aggressive, aggressive, defensive. Distract, aggressive, aggressive. Distract again, try again to stun or disarm. Kill only for self-defense.

But Regina must have trained Percy well, as he deflected everything Draco sent his way. The one advantage Draco held was his position on the hill, giving him just a few feet of upper ground. There was a yell from afar and then Hermione was bolting up the hill behind Percy. Draco's face betrayed him and Percy turned just in time to dodge her disarming spell. She cried out as she threw herself between Draco and Percy.

"Don't," she panted. "Don't hurt him."

"Move," demanded Percy.

"No."

" _Move_ ," he repeated, the fire in his eyes engulfing his entire body, emboldening him with rage. Draco saw he was about to attack, there was no stopping him, not even if Hermione was in the way. Percy raised his wand to strike and Draco moved instinctively to push Hermione aside, but she was ready for him and she pushed back. Draco saw the curse move as if in slow motion—a jet of white light, clean cut and thick, heading straight towards him. Halfway through its journey, however, it was interrupted by Hermione's arm, thrust up in a last-ditch effort to shield Draco.

An arm was all it took and Draco watched in horror as she fell against him and then crumpled to the ground. He momentarily forgot Percy and knelt to the ground clutching at her clothes, her skin, trying to find a pulse.

Then Percy was above him again, his arm raised, and Draco felt all will to fight back drain out of him. He waited, the seconds feeling like hours, for the curse to hit, when there was a call from behind Percy.

"Perce!"

George Weasley staggered his way up the hill, breathless and bright red. He squared his shoulders and looked his brother in the eye. "Percy, look at me. Look at me."

Percy momentarily abandoned Draco, who frantically kept searching for Hermione's pulse. He found one, weak and erratic, in her neck, and breathed a sigh of relief.

"What?" spat Percy.

"You won't look at me. I've noticed. You see him when you look at me, don't you? You see Fred," George said, his eyes brimming with tears. "I see it every morning. It's the worst fucking feeling, never being able to forget. I know what it feels like to spend every moment of your life wishing for revenge."

"If that was true then you'd be fighting with us," Percy said. "Instead of defending that coward." He looked back at Draco with disdain.

"I know what you mean," said George. "But every time I see my face—his face—and feel anger, I think about what he would want, and this isn't it, Percy. He wouldn't want us spending the rest of our days—days he doesn't get—filled with rage. He wouldn't want to see you waste your life like this."

As George spoke he glanced at Draco fleetingly, his eyes wide. It took Draco a moment, but he understood what the man was trying to communicate: _Do it for me. I can't hurt my own brother. Do it for me._

And so, using the last bit of will he could muster, Draco lifted his wand. The motion caught Percy's eye but Draco cast the spell before he could react. The last thing Draco saw before he passed out was Percy's stunned body falling rigidly to the ground.

* * *

Draco would wake up in St. Mungo's two hours later. He had passed out from a combination of exhaustion, dehydration, and shock. The first thing out of his mouth was a plea to see Hermione, but Harry explained she was in surgery and wouldn't be out for another hour at least.

Harry explained that while Draco was up on the hill with Percy, Lavender had been killed in the duel—an unfortunate necessity, as her relentless nature left them no other choice. Regina and Percy were both taken into custody.

Ron and Bill were both fine, each suffering minor wounds and concussions. The rest of the Weasleys were shaken but otherwise fine.

"They're all in the waiting room," Harry told him.

"Good. Hermione will want to see them when she gets out of surgery."

"They're here for you, too," Harry said gently. Draco couldn't fathom why they would want to see him after what had happened and declined their visits, accepting only Ginny into his hospital room. She came waddling in with bags under her eyes.

"Thank Merlin you're both alive."

He nodded to her. "You're bloody fantastic with a wand."

"I know," she said with a small smile as she pulled up a chair beside his bed. "Did Harry tell you about Hermione?"

"Just that she's in surgery. Is there more to know?" Draco tried to sit up but his head was still dizzy and light.

Ginny nodded. "Percy cast an old curse, something that normally would burrow its way into your mind and force you to remember your worst moments over and over until you kill yourself or go mad from it all. Luckily with advancements, they're able to get in before it happens and undo the magic from the inside. It's dangerous though. Especially because wizards haven't done brain surgery until recently."

Draco fell back against his pillow, his entire body numb. "I did that to her."

" _Percy_ did that to her," corrected Ginny.

"Because of me."

"Don't be a dumbass."

"Don't be so naïve."

Ginny frowned. "If you weren't in a hospital bed I'd smack you upside the head."

Draco went silent for a moment. Hermione Granger, the brightest witch of their age, was on a table somewhere getting her head cut open and her brain dug through because of him. Everything she prided herself on was at risk and her family had been put in danger, all because of his association with her. He thought of the Prophesieve—its predictions hadn't been as severe, but they weren't inaccurate.

"I invented this device," he said to Ginny. "It's like a Pensieve except it uses your memories to predict the future."

Ginny snorted. "Right, sure you did."

"I did," he repeated solemnly. "Hermione checked the magic with me and it was as solid as you can get, as far as divination goes."

The redheaded woman cocked a brow. "And?"

"And I used it a couple days ago. It told me that any life I would have with Hermione would be plagued with unhappiness because of my past. That she would be haunted by my mistakes as well. Her image and reputation would be ruined, her safety would always be at risk…"

Ginny saw where he was going and held up a hand to stop him. "I won't sit through this sort of pity party, Malfoy. Hermione cares about you."

"And I care about her."

"Then that's all you need."

He shook his head. "I care about her enough to put myself aside so she can have a normal life."

Ginny scoffed. "If Hermione wanted a 'normal' life, she wouldn't have chosen to be friends with Harry Potter, she wouldn't be the through-and-through Gryffindor that she is, and she certainly wouldn't have fallen for you. _This_ is what Hermione has chosen, and it hasn't been easy for her to do that. You should respect her decision."

"But that's exactly what I mean! It hasn't been easy for her. For once in her life, wouldn't it be nice to have someone easy? Maybe she chose me because she doesn't know anything but the hard decision. Maybe if she knew what easy felt like, she would be happier."

Ginny sighed, shook her head, and stood. "I can't chase away the self-doubt in your head, Malfoy. You're a grown man and I know you'll make your own decisions. So you do what you think is right. But I can tell you this—Hermione wants you, and it would hurt her terribly if you left."

With that, she turned her back and walked out of Draco's hospital room, leaving him alone with nothing but the steady beat of his heart monitor and a terribly heavy decision to make.

* * *

Hermione's surgery went smoothly, but due to the nature of the curse, she was placed under a temporary coma so her brain could heal properly. The healers estimated she would wake up in three to four days.

Draco spent the first twenty-four hours beside her bed holding her hand and thinking. He went over the Prophesieve's visions again and again, scrutinizing every detail. He mulled over Percy's words, and then Ginny's, hoping desperately for an epiphany that he knew wasn't going to come. Finally Ginny told him he reeked and forced him to go home to take a shower, promising to alert him if Hermione woke up.

He took his time walking to his flat, absorbing every detail of the world with new eyes. After nearly a month at the Potters', people's chatter felt louder and their presence more deliberate. A few people whispered but he shook it off, convincing himself he was imagining things. He picked up a _Prophet_ from an elderly man selling copies on a street corner and cowered at his old mugshot glowering up at him: _Attack on Former War Heroes Brought on By Ex-Death-Eater-Turned-Auror_.

"That you?" asked the man.

"So what if it is?"

The man flinched. "Didn't mean nothing by it. Just wondered."

Draco felt guilty for assuming the worst in the man, but couldn't bring himself to apologize. Instead he ducked his head and decided to apparate the rest of the way to his flat.

The inside of his flat felt even stranger after being left alone for three months. Unlike the Weasleys' mantle, his was devoid of any family photos or homemade trinkets. His shelves held a handful of clinical books and his closet was mostly empty, housing only a few coats and extra shoes. The flat was spotless save for a few loose pages of notes on his desk about the Prophesieve. His heart panged and he crumpled the pages, tossing them in the rubbish bin.

As he showered, Draco thought of the newspaper man's face. There were others who stared as he was walking, eager to judge him for his sins, wondering why he dared to walk so openly among them. They liked it, in a sick sort of way. They had their own sins, but at least they weren't a Malfoy. And if Hermione had been with him, they'd think: at least they weren't dating a Malfoy.

He scrubbed viciously at his skin, wishing old mistakes could be sloughed off as easily as dead skin.

He meant to return to the hospital after a quick nap, but fell dead asleep the moment his head touched his pillow. Instead he returned first thing the next morning and found Ginny and Ron outside Hermione's room.

"Did something happen?" he asked.

Ron shook his head. "No. She just has visitors right now."

Draco peered through the slightly ajar door and saw an older couple bent over her bed. The woman was stroking Hermione's hand while the man stood still as a statue, the only human thing about him was the tears trailing down his cheeks.

"Who are they?" he asked.

"Her parents," whispered Ginny.

Her parents. Draco had forgotten she even had parents. She hardly spoke about them, only mentioned once in passing that their memories had only been partially restored, and that they chose to continue living in Australia. He felt his blood run cold at the thought of having to face them and explain how he was the man who put their daughter in that bed, while simultaneously claiming to love her.

His hands clenched in his pockets and his eyes stung as he finally realized what he had to do. "I should go," he muttered.

"Are you alright?" asked Ginny.

"Yeah. Just need some air. I'll be back later."

Draco looked one more time at Hermione, serene and angel-like on her hospital bed, surrounded by people who loved her and had _always_ loved her. This is what she deserved, he decided. Peace.

He felt the hefty pain of reality pierce his chest and he walked briskly to the nearest Floo, suddenly desperate to be alone. The moment he arrived at his flat again he fell to the floor, his body wracked with heavy sobs, the kind of sobs one only experiences when they have decided to give up the thing they love most.

* * *

A/N: I'm sorry?

Three more chapters to go, maybe four.

Leave a comment, yell at me if you want lol… Also there might be typos and awkward writing in this chapter as I didn't properly edit it.


	31. One Year Later-- Hermione

_songs: 'need you now'/lady antebellum_

 _'_ _my everything'/ariana grande_

 _'_ _somewhere only we know'/keane_

 **Chapter Thirty-One: One Year Later- Hermione**

* * *

It was raining outside. Shitty weather for a shitty day. Hermione pulled her coat tightly around her and ran from her apparition spot in the alleyway to the doorway of her favorite cafe. She ordered two hot chocolates and an almond croissant.

"Hello, Hermione," said the young boy behind the cash register. She was a regular here—she believed Muggle coffee to be superior to the kind at the Ministry and she stopped by nearly every morning to purchase a cup. This time, however, it was mid-afternoon on a Sunday and she was buying some treats for her and Ginny.

As she waited for her order she saw a calendar on the bulletin board and cringed at the date, circled in red dry erase marker. December fourth. It had been exactly a year since he'd left.

Life had changed so much since that day she'd woken up in a bed at St. Mungo's. First she was grateful to be alive, then twice as grateful to hear that everyone else had made it out in good health as well. She greeted her parents tearfully and apologized for putting herself in harm's way yet again. And then she'd asked for Draco. She should have known by the way the whole room went silent that something was wrong. "Tell me he's alive," she'd choked out.

"Of course," said Ginny. "It's just…" She turned to the others and they began filing out of the room, leaving behind only Harry, Ron, and Ginny.

"What happened?" whispered Hermione.

Ginny didn't say much, just handed over a folded piece of parchment. Harry held her while she cried and Ron let her pound on his chest in frustration. The note was short: _It's become clear to me, given the circumstances, that we do not belong in each other's lives. I think it would be best for both of us if I left now. I'm sorry for the pain I've caused. –DM_

Things hadn't been easy at first. She spent three days moping alone, living in filth, and hardly taking care of herself, which was her first stage of grief. She tried briefly to find Draco, but knew that if he didn't want to be found, she wasn't going to find him. Then kicked in the 'I'm better than this' stage, wherein she cleaned her entire flat, ran two miles every morning before breakfast, and redid her entire kitchen. After that was the 'I didn't care about him anyway' phase, which was Ginny's favorite stage, because they all got to take turns taking digs at Malfoy. The final stage was proper mourning and acceptance—she bought a new kitten, sat on her couch, and took time to properly miss him. She missed him so deeply it pained her.

But then she was cleared for work and started her new job, which successfully distracted her. She was resilient; she wouldn't let what happened define her happiness. She focused on her career and in just ten months' time she developed a thriving Ministry department that employed ten wizards and witches, two goblins, and a house elf who ran the front desk. She was halfway done with a second book about integration in the workplace and she was regarded highly by her coworkers. After a significant amount of nagging on Ginny and Harry's part, she went on a few dates, but didn't find anyone she was particularly interested in, claiming she wanted to take a year off from men.

But her year was officially up, so what would her excuse be now?

The moment Hermione stepped out of the Potter's fireplace into Grimmauld Place, Ginny practically threw her child into her friend's arms. "Oh, thank Merlin, I need to take a piss but the moment I put him down he starts screaming bloody murder."

Hermione grasped the wiggly child tight. James, now nearly a year old, may have had the looks of his father, but he inherited the fiery spirit of his mum. Hermione cooed as she propped James up her shoulder. "Are you being difficult today?" The boy shook his head and she giggled. "I think you're lying to me."

Ginny staggered out of the loo with a heavy sigh. Harry had wasted no time in getting her knocked up again, which she was simultaneously delighted and furious about. She was only three months along, but was already beginning to show again. "Thanks," she said, fetching her child back and accepting Hermione's offer of hot chocolate. "He's been so hard to deal with lately, but he's showing magic already. Just this morning he was throwing a tantrum and he shattered our vanity mirror on accident." She shook her head at her child but smiled nonetheless, ever the proud mother. "Anyway, are you ready?"

"Let's do it." Hermione had been commissioned to paint a mural in James' new playroom. Harry claimed James loved the painting of a smiling lion she'd done in his nursery and even though the child couldn't yet speak, apparently Ginny could tell he wanted Aunt Hermione to do another painting.

Hermione followed Ginny up the stairs but felt a lump grow in her throat when she saw which room she'd chosen as the playroom. It was the room Draco had stayed in. It looked the same, except now there was a playpen and a few colorful toys on the floor. But she recognized the nightstand she rested her wand on at night, the desk where he worked on his Prophesieve, and the bed they shared. The bed where he held her, took her, told her he loved her.

Ginny looked back at her friend. "What's wrong?"

"It…" Hermione choked on her own words. She'd implemented a moratorium on any Malfoy-talk a few weeks after their breakup, finding it was easier to handle when she didn't talk about it. Their relationship had been so private, it seemed easier to pretend it never happened. It took Ginny a moment, but then she remembered.

"Oh, Hermione, I'm sorry," she said quietly. "I forgot."

"It's a year today," she said sadly.

"Is it?"

Hermione nodded. "How pathetic is it that I even remember?"

"It's not pathetic." Ginny heaved James into the playpen and pulled her friend into a hug. "You cared about him."

"I hardly knew him."

"You knew him," she said solemnly. "I think you knew him better than he knew himself. And I think that's what scared him away."

Hermione felt tears prick the corner of her eyes. "Oh, bugger. I promised myself I wouldn't cry."

"You try too hard to be strong, Hermione. Let it out. If pregnancy hormones have taught me anything, it's that people really don't judge you if you cry at stupid things. And that's coming from someone who started bawling when she saw a little girl drop her ice cream cone."

Hermione giggled through her tears, remembering the incident clearly. Ginny had felt so bad for the girl. "Thanks," she said.

"I'm always here for you. Harry and Ron too, even though they're both useless when it comes to female emotions."

Hermione smiled. James yelled from his playpen, objecting to his imprisonment. She walked over to entertain him, and then saw something familiar behind the playpen—a black briefcase with silver clasps.

"Ginny?" she asked. "What's that?"

"Oh, that was Malfoy's. He never came back to get it, obviously, and we didn't really know what to do with it. We didn't want to throw it out so we just kinda let it sit in here."

Hermione grasped the handle and ran her fingers over the leather. All his things were in here—his clothes, his potion collection, even… Could the Prophesieve be in here? "Do you think I could have it?"

Ginny looked at her friend hesitantly. "If you think that's a good idea."

"I just… I think there's something in here that belongs to me." It was a lie, but for some reason Hermione felt she was entitled to whatever might be inside.

"Then it's yours."

Satisfied, Hermione placed the briefcase to the side and smiled, wiping aside the last of her tears. "Well, let's paint this mural, then."

"Are you sure? I understand if you want to go home."

"No, of course not!" She ruffled James' hair. "I promised this future Gryffindor a lion painting, and a lion painting he shall receive."

Hermione tried her best to keep Draco's briefcase out of her mind while she worked on James' mural. Harry and Ron both joined them in the afternoon, making her temporarily forget about Draco altogether. It was just like old times, the four of them laughing and hanging out. Ginny started a paint fight that quickly turned into a full-out war and by the time she headed out, Hermione was splattered head-to-toe in yellow.

"Are you sure you don't want to stay for dinner?" asked Harry as he tried to wipe neon blue paint off of his son's cheek.

"No, I've got to go feed Eleanor," she said, referring to the cat waiting for her at home.

Ginny hugged her again before she left. "Don't get yourself down," she whispered with a smile.

When Hermione got back to her flat she quickly stripped out of her stained clothes and changed before kneeling down in front of Draco's heavy black briefcase. She hesitated—did she even want to open it? Would it bring her peace and closure or would it only make things worse? She'd finally reached the point of moving on, and the last thing she needed was to miss him all over again.

But her fatal flaw had always been her curiosity, and she couldn't bear just leaving the suitcase unopened. She took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and flipped open the latches.

She was impressed all over again by his impeccable undetectable extension charm. There were shelves inside the briefcase extending down as far as her arm could reach. The first few shelves had the basics—clothes and books, mostly. She lifted up a gray sweater and felt her stomach flip at the scent. It still smelled exactly like him, like rain and trees.

The next few shelves had files and files of notes, each file labeled carefully in his neat script. She ran a finger over the letters, remembering how fiercely he would scribble when he was deep in thought, sometimes so aggressive he tore the paper. She flipped through a few of the papers, stopping when she spotted her name scrawled into the corner of a rune translation guide.

 _Granger is being extra irritating this morning. She keeps humming some damned muggle song._

Then, below that:

 _She actually has a nice singing voice, which might be the worst part._

Hermione couldn't help the smile that blossomed onto her lips. She read the words in the voice he would use when he was pretending to be more irritated than he was.

It took some extra reaching to finally find what she was looking for: the Prophesieve. She found it carefully tucked away at the bottom of the briefcase, cushioned between two jackets. She lifted it gently and set it onto the floor next to her. Eleanor tried to paw at the strange stone basin but Hermione shooed her away.

The Prophesieve looked just as she remembered: a dark gray stone the size of a serving platter engraved with ancient runes, with cloudy white mist floating above its surface. She swept a finger through the mist and shuddered; it felt like ice water.

She knew she shouldn't use it. She knew Draco hadn't finished working on it, that it was just a prototype, that it wasn't even accurate to begin with. She knew it was a pile of rubbish and yet…

She had to know.

Before she could give herself the time to think rationally, Hermione brought her wand to her head, squeezed her eyes shut, and thought of him.

The first memory that came to mind was their first night together. Her entire body tingled as she extracted the memory as carefully as possible—she never liked the feeling of removing her memories. It was supremely uncomfortable, like tickling the inside of her head.

The silvery memory spun in the air before being deposited into the Prophesieve, which then glowed bright blue. She swallowed hard and looked up at Eleanor. The cat leaned her head to the side and meowed loud.

"Do you think I should do it?" Hermione asked.

Another meow.

"Alright, then," she said with a determined sigh. "Here goes nothing."

Hermione took a deep breath and plunged her face into the Prophesieve. Her body was sucked and squeezed until she left the physical world and entered some strange reality in which her body no longer existed. She was seeing things from her own eyes, but she wasn't in control of what she said or did. She was stuck in her own brain as her body moved of its own accord.

She looked around: she was back in the living room at 12 Grimmauld Place. She could hear Ginny and Harry talking in the kitchen, but her focus was trained on the man beside her. It was Draco, sitting casually on the couch, wearing the gray sweater she'd found in his briefcase. He was cradling a baby in the crook of his arm, a wondrous expression on his face. Hermione looked closer: it was a jet-black haired boy with brown eyes and pink cheeks. He looked just like James, but he was too small to be James. _It must be the next one_ , she thought.

With a touch so gentle it was as if the baby was made of porcelain, Draco swept aside the child's hair and smiled. Hermione felt her heart swell at the sight.

"What do you think?" she heard herself ask.

Draco's gray eyes were full of awe as he looked up at her. He was positively beaming, as if a grand revelation had just come over him. "I want one," he said breathlessly.

"What?"

"I want one. Two even, maybe. With you."

Hermione felt the breath leave her lungs. She'd never felt such unadulterated honesty in Draco's words before. "Oh…"

"Not now, of course. Not anytime soon. But you should know that I want one."

She smiled. "I do, too."

-.-.-

The world spun again, Draco and the baby dissolved, and suddenly she was in Ginny and Harry's bed, crying in Ginny's arms.

"I c-can't do it…" she sobbed.

Ginny stroked her hair gently. "Shh, Hermione. It's okay."

"I don't know how I ended up here. I thought he would be enough for me, but maybe I underestimated what I needed." There was a terrible, painful twisting in her gut.

"I told you from the beginning, Hermione- you need to do what is right for you. You should never settle for anything less than what makes you happy."

She sniffled and sat up on the bed, her tears and snot smeared on what was probably Harry's pillow. "He makes me happy."

"Except for when he doesn't."

"Right."

Ginny smiled sadly. "Have you thought to ask for what you want?"

Hermione sighed. "How do I ask for this, though? How do I ask to be told I'm loved more often? How do I make someone so closed off open up to me?"

Her friend gave a defeated shrug. "I don't know. But I would ask- do you know he loves you? When he does open up, is it honest?"

Hermione swallowed and looked down at her hands. "Yes."

"I'm not at all saying you should settle, Hermione. But there will always be compromises, and maybe this is just one of them."

-.-.-

She was back at her flat, except it looked different here: her things were moved around, there were things missing, and there were new objects in their place. A man's dress shirt was draped over the couch and a large black coat was hanging on the coat rack.

She heard a noise from the bedroom. "Granger?" Draco stepped out of the darkness, his hands in his pockets and his eyes wide open. "You came back?"

"Of course I came back," she heard herself say. "Why wouldn't I come back?"

He took a hesitant step forward, as if she were a horse he might spook by moving too quickly. "You were upset."

"I'm always upset."

He opened and closed his mouth like a fish, unsure of whether or not he was supposed to agree with her statement.

She sighed and kicked off her shoes. "I told you I'm not leaving. I'm in this for the long haul. You're going to have to do a lot worse to get rid of me, Malfoy."

Draco smiled sheepishly. The sight made her heart sing.

-.-.-

She was at the Burrow now, in Ron's old room, standing in front of a full-length mirror in a stunning white dress. It was simple, nothing too frivolous, but as she stared at herself, she couldn't help but think of how much she looked like a princess. A few white flowers adorned her hair, which fell free and curly down her back.

 _I'm getting married_ , she thought incredulously.

The door swung open and Harry came in, looking stressed. "Hermione, he's freaking out."

She felt her heart drop. "He hasn't changed his mind?"

"Merlin, no," Harry said. "The opposite. He thinks you're going to make a run for it if someone's not here to stop you."

She chuckled. "He's an idiot."

"I know. Ron promised to try and talk him down, but now that I think about it, he's probably just antagonizing Malfoy more."

Hermione smoothed her dress down and checked the clock: fifteen more minutes and it would be official. Only fifteen more minutes, and yet there wasn't a shred of doubt in her heart. In fact, she felt lighter and freer than ever.

"Go back, tell Malfoy to quit being a dimwit, and have Ron come make sure I don't run off instead."

Harry nodded. "Got it." He turned to leave and then stopped in the doorway. "Oh, and Hermione?"

"Yeah?"

"You look beautiful."

-.-.-

She was against the wall of a foreign room, but she didn't have time to think about where it was. She was naked, sweaty, Draco pressing up and into her, her legs wrapped around his waist. She gasped as he thrust hard, again and again, making her fall forward, her forehead against his shoulder. "Fuck…"

He grunted, one hand tangled in her hair, the other roaming up and down her side. She sighed nervously and tried to meet his gaze, but his mind was elsewhere. "Draco?"

"Hm?" He slowed to more long, deliberate thrusts, and she momentarily forgot what she wanted to tell him.

"Wait—Draco—" There was urgency in her voice and he slowed down, releasing his hold on her hair so he could press their foreheads together.

"What is it?"

She bit her lip nervously and looked down. "Promise you won't be mad?"

"Only if whatever you've got to tell me isn't important enough to justify stopping what we were just doing."

She breathed a laugh and grasped both sides of his face gently. "I wanted to tell you earlier, but I couldn't find the right time, and now just seemed like the right time-"

"Fuck, Hermione, get on with it, I'm practicing a lot of self control right now," he said, holding himself steady inside her.

She took a deep breath and looked him straight in the eye. "I'm pregnant."

As if she had just announced her vagina was poisonous, he pulled away from her and covered his mouth with both hands. " _What_?"

She frowned nervously. "I thought you would be happy."

"The baby! I could have been—could we have hurt the baby?"

Hermione gaped for a moment before realizing he was serious, and then she doubled over in laughter. "What?"

"Does—can sex—it won't hurt the baby, right?" he asked, hands wringing with panic.

"No!" she laughed. "God, Hogwarts needs better sex ed." She walked back over to him, pushed him down onto their bed, and kissed him long and hard.

"Oh, thank Salazar," he breathed. The alarm left his face and then was replaced with pure shock as he looked her body up and down. "You're pregnant," he said slowly.

"I'm pregnant."

"With a baby?"

She chuckled. "I sure hope it's a baby."

After digesting this fact for a moment, a wide, elated smile took over his face, and suddenly he was picking her up and twirling her in circles. "So I take it you're happy?" she giggled into his neck.

"I love you," was his only response.

-.-.-

There was no time for her to recover from what she'd just experienced before she was hurtled through time again, deposited far into the future on platform nine and three-quarters. Her hand was intertwined with Draco's as they watched their son chat animatedly with another boy—black hair, brown eyes. The baby from the first scene she'd witnessed.

Harry and Ginny came up behind them; Ron and a pretty blonde woman followed close behind. _Was that his wife?_

"Now that Albus is in Slytherin, I hope Leo's in Gryffindor," Ron said as the watched the pair of young boys talk.

 _The baby's name was Albus. Her son's name was Leo._

"His name _does_ mean 'lion'," Ginny mused.

Draco sniffed disapprovingly. He was older: his hair thinner, his eyes creasing at the edges, his edges softening, but there was still a familiar spark in his eyes and smirk on his lips. "The name was a compromise- I got a constellation name if she could sneak in a lion reference. But no son of mine will be a Gryffindor, trust me."

"No son of _mine_ will be a Slytherin," Hermione countered.

"You two better watch out or you might just end up with a Hufflepuff," Harry teased. Both Hermione and Draco gasped.

" _Never_."

Ginny grinned. "Just the other day I saw Leo offer the other half of his biscuit to Lily because she was sad that both her brothers were leaving to Hogwarts. That's _very_ Hufflepuff behavior, if you ask me."

Draco pretended not to hear her. "Darling, shall we go tell our son goodbye?"

Hermione smiled sadly as they walked away from their friends. "I can't believe he's leaving to Hogwarts. Wasn't it just yesterday I was in labor and you showed up at St. Mungo's with your left eyebrow missing because you splinched in your rush to get to me?"

Draco looked down sourly at his wife. "Bugger off."

She leaned up on her toes to kiss his cheek. "Let's go reassure Leo that we'll love him even if he _does_ end up in Hufflepuff. I have a feeling Albus is telling him you'll disown him."

"I just might," Draco grumbled.

-.-.-

She was now in a house with huge windows that opened to a brilliant view of the ocean. This time she felt the weight of her body like a burden. Every step seemed to weigh on her aching feet. A quick glance in the window glass showed her skin was baggy and wrinkled, her back was hunched, and her hair was short and gray.

"Hermione?"

She turned around. There he was, nearly bald now, his sharp edges drooping, but still undeniably Draco. She felt her eyes narrow at him. "You didn't do your dishes from this morning," she scolded.

He waved his cane at her. "That's what the damned elf is for."

"The elf has better things to do than rinse your coffee cup—which, by the way, you aren't supposed to be drinking!"

Draco looked down shamefully. "It's not my fault you got me hooked on the stuff all those years ago."

She walked up to him and cradled his chin in her hand. "It's not my fault you went and made me love you. I'd like to keep you around for another few years at the very least."

He smiled and kissed her forehead. "Fine. I'll try to switch to tea again."

Her heart, which she could feel was running low on beats, fluttered.

-.-.-

Hermione felt the Prophesieve yank her backwards this time—she didn't know _how_ she knew it, but she could tell they were going back in time instead of forwards. She was spit back out in a familiar living room. There were white armchairs and seashells on the fireplace—she was at the cottage in Rhode Island.

She looked around, but couldn't find Draco anywhere. In fact, it was eerily silent and she couldn't even hear the sea crashing in the distance or any cars driving by in the road. She walked around the cottage slowly, looking for any indication of where in time and space she was supposed to be.

Then there was a burning sensation against her chest. She looked down and saw the locket he gave her was glowing around her neck. Then she heard the Floo roar in the other room.

She turned back and saw him there in the fireplace, his hands at his sides, his eyes wide.

"You came back," she heard herself say.

"I came back for you."

-.-.-

Suddenly the Prophesieve spit her out and she was back in her physical body in her flat. She fell backwards, causing Eleanor to hiss in fright and hide under the couch. Her breath came in quick, nervous pants and she held her hand to her chest, trying to steady herself.

What was all of that?

 _It isn't true, it isn't reality_ , she tried to tell herself. _It isn't true. It's a prototype. It can't see the future. None of that was real. None of that._

And yet, it felt real. She could still hear his voice, see his eyes, and feel him holding her.

She tried to put it all together. The visions came in order: first visiting baby Albus, then getting into a fight, then resolving the fight, then a wedding, then a child of their own, then sending their child to Hogwarts, then growing old together.

So what was that last one? It was out of order. It didn't feel as real as the other visions, either. It felt like a dream state. Was it a symbol? A signal? A message?

What was it that she'd said to him? _'You came back?'_

Then, _'I came back for you.'_

Was that the moment in the hypothetical future that he returned? Was he going to come back to her?

Hermione tried to focus her spinning brain, but there was simply too much to process. Ginny was right, she shouldn't have taken the briefcase. Now what was she supposed to do? Pretend she didn't see the future that might have been? Her hand still on her chest, she remembered the burning locket from the vision at the cottage. _Where had she put that locket?_

After some searching she found it at the bottom of her underwear drawer, the chain tangled. She shoved it into the pocket of her jeans and bit her lip nervously. Maybe it had been a message. Maybe she needed to have a little faith for once.

Against all instinct, she threw logic to the wind and ran back to her fireplace. Eleanor, clearly perturbed by her owner's haste, scampered to hide under the couch again. Hermione threw a handful of Floo powder into the fireplace and said loud and clear the address to the cottage in Rhode Island.

She didn't know what to expect when she got there. The space looked just as it did in her vision—clean, white, quiet. She did a quick walk around the cottage, copying the path she followed in the vision. She waited to hear the fireplace roar, but there was no sound save for the clinking of a wind chime out on the porch.

She sat in the kitchen and waited. Waited and waited and waited, waited until the sun set and the room went dim, waited until she realized nothing was going to change, that the visions were nothing but nonsense divination.

He wasn't going to come back. He'd left her and he'd made it very clear that he had no plans of coming back. God, when she was she going to stop deluding herself and just understand that he wasn't the man she thought him to be?

She sank down onto the floor, crouched into a ball, and sobbed silently to herself. Maybe this was what she needed—a final reminder that Draco Malfoy was nothing but a brief blip in her timeline.

She reached into her back pocket and grabbed the locket, clasping it tight. She thought of him. She wondered if his burned, wherever he was, whatever he was doing.

 _I'm letting you go,_ she thought. _But I wish you knew that I saw what could have happened. And it was a beautiful life._

With a heavy sigh she carried herself back to the fireplace and returned to her flat.

* * *

A/N: Oh, I love this chapter. It's sad but I like it.

Two more chapters left!


	32. One Year Later-- Draco

_songs: how to save a life/the fray_

 _i don't wanna live forever/zayn & taylor swift _

_the man who can't be moved/the script_

 **One Year Later—Draco**

* * *

Draco knew he'd made a grave mistake after one month of being away from Hermione. After a month he wanted nothing more than to run back and beg for forgiveness, but she had made it very clear that she couldn't handle that pain again. If he was going to leave, he couldn't go back. He'd made his bed and now he had to sleep in it.

So Draco decided to make a new life for himself. After giving a private testimony against Percy and Regina, he handed in his resignation papers to the Auror department and left to Paris with the last of his money. He followed the news back home in London carefully and celebrated alone in his flat when Percy and Regina were both sentenced to life sentences in prison.

After two months hiding away in Paris, he got back in contact with Theodore Nott, an old friend who could relate to Draco's self-destructive nature. His friend took pity on him and hired him on at his antique shop. Draco moved in above the store and worked refurbishing the ancient magical merchandise, a job he had quite a knack for. His old Hogwarts friend could hardly believe Draco's story of how he fell for Hermione Granger.

"Granger?" he'd asked, eyes wide as saucers. "Holy shit."

"Is that a good or a bad holy shit?"

"Neither, mate," he said. "That's a _'holy shit'_ holy shit."

Theo was there to stop him when he entered his dark places, when all he wanted to do was punish himself for destroying the only good thing he'd ever had. He was like a house-elf, doomed to avenge his own sins. Some days he felt there was no amount of pain that would match his mistakes.

But after a few months the darkness began to fade away, time healing wounds like it always does. He became quite good at his job but still refused to go downstairs and interact with customers, preferring to do his work in the privacy of his upstairs flat. He didn't want anyone knowing he was back in London. Over the months he discovered, much to his own surprise, that he was capable of being a good man outside of Hermione's presence. She had fundamentally changed a part of him; it was as if she turned on a light inside of him that remained aflame even after she was gone. He found that the overwhelming anger he used to feel towards himself faded to a dull throb of regret, mostly for abandoning the best thing that had ever happened to him.

He convinced Theo to open an in-shop magical repair and refurbish service in which people could bring malfunctioning items for Draco to fix and even improve. He practiced his magic and started inventing again. He managed to make peace with much of what had happened with the White Hats. He sent letters to Mathieu Zabini and Pansy's widower, Grant, offering whatever condolences he could. He even began a regular correspondence with Grant and found solace in his written company.

There was one habit, though, that he couldn't break, no matter how much he tried to heal, and that was watching Hermione. He only saw her once a month, because Theo wanted to make sure he didn't become a full-on stalker. On the first Monday of the month, he would charm his hair black and his eyes blue and sit in the corner table of the coffee shop she visited before work. Always a coffee, always with cream. He lived for the moments he got to see her with her hair pulled back into a professional bun, wearing sharp clothes, always fumbling with a briefcase or a handful of files.

He was glad that she did all right after he left. He knew she would. She was fine before she met him, and she would be fine afterwards. She had friends to ground her, a career to distract her. She had a shining personality that would draw new men to her in no time. He read articles about her success almost obsessively. He saw her photograph in interview about a book she was working on. She was smiling in the way she did when she was supposed to be professional: polite and small, still lovely but not at all like the wide-mouthed smile she let spread across her lips when she was genuinely happy.

When Percy and Regina were sentenced he read her statement, which was firm but tasteful. When he spotted his own name in the statement he felt his heart skip a beat.

 _The entire Auror team, specifically Draco Malfoy, made it their priority to keep me safe despite the grave threat the White Hats posed. I thank them profusely for their dedication to not only my personal safety, but the safety of the entire wizarding community._

He imagined how hard it might have been to thank him despite what he'd done to her. But that was Hermione: always taking the high road, always graceful. Over the months he saw countless photos of her in newspapers and magazines and he watched her posture change from weary and wounded to strong and determined.

Part of him wanted her to fall apart, to miss him as much as he missed her. He wanted a signal that she wasn't okay without him. But she was. And he learned to be happy knowing she was happy.

Still, he wore the necklace every day. She'd warned him: if you leave, that's it. So he made a decision: he would give her space, but he would hold out hope and wait for her signal. He would wait for the sign that she still thought of him, deciding that if that if his charm ever burned, he would be ready to apologize for the mistake he'd made.

* * *

December fourth arrived in a flurry of rain, which Draco appreciated—the universe was just as depressed as he was. Today marked exactly a day since he had written a short note, left it beside Hermione's hospital bed, and left without looking back. He anticipated feeling worse than he did, though. He was surrounded by an uplifting aura despite the solemn anniversary. There was something in the air that felt promising.

It was a Saturday and the store was busy despite the rain. Sometimes Draco would sit by the stairwell and listen to the voices that drifted up: mostly seniors on the weekend who had nothing better to do than haggle prices with Theo. There were some younger timbres as well, newlywed couples trying to find cheap furniture for their new flat, a witch looking for her late grandmother's mirror, which had been lost in an estate sale. Draco worked in silence, losing himself in the lives of the store patrons as they browsed the store's crowded aisles. Draco hardly noticed the buzz downstairs slow to a calm silence, or the rain beginning to fall harder as the evening arrived.

"Hey Draco?"

He looked up to see Theo in the doorframe to the upstairs studio in which he resided. "Yeah?"

"Can you cover the store for me for a few minutes? I've got to go make a deposit before Sunday."

Draco hesitated. He rarely covered the store for fear of being recognized. Living the life of a hermit was comfortable. Easy.

"Please?" Theo pleaded. The store assistant, Macy, had called in sick that morning, so the only other one in the building was Draco. "It's raining hard out and hardly anyone is coming through anyway. I'm expecting a drop-off from someone so I can't close early."

Draco looked up at the clock. It was only a half hour to closing time, and it _was_ raining hard. "Fine."

Downstairs he sat behind the cash register, rested his head on his palm, and fiddled with a glass toy on the desk. If he spun it fast enough it emitted white mist. The toy reminded him of his long-missed Prophesieve, which was still at the Potter house. After leaving Hermione behind he knew he couldn't go back and ask Ginny for his briefcase. He'd wanted to make a new one but it'd taken years to construct the first model and he didn't have any of his notes anymore. It would take a small miracle to replicate what he'd done.

The store remained patron-less save for the man Theo was expecting. It was ten minutes to closing time when he heard the front door swing open. Rain spattered on the concrete and thunder clapped in the distance ominously.

"Theo?" he asked without looking up, still watching the glass ball spin.

"Malfoy?"

He froze. He knew that voice.

"Malfoy, what in the bloody fucking hell are you doing here?"

He looked up slowly to meet the man's piercing green eyes, which were narrow and furious behind thin-rimmed spectacles. "Potter," he greeted.

"What the _fuck_?"

He tried his best to remain composed, but on the inside he was reeling. Of course the one time he mans the cash register Potter chooses to come in. He imagined what he looked like to Harry: his hair longer and unkempt, his eyes tired, his disposition shriveled and weak. This was it, he thought. Potter was going to tell Hermione that he'd been hiding in London this whole time, and she would hate him twice as much.

"What are you doing here?" Draco asked in the most measured tone he could muster.

"James broke our vanity. Ginny wanted a new mirror. She likes antiques."

James. That was the name of their son; he'd read it in the paper. He wanted to ask about her but he couldn't bring himself to do it.

Harry stepped forward and folded his arms. "What are you doing here? Malfoy, you had a whole new life ahead of you. You finally passed into Aurorship and then you run away? You disappear? What, you work a register now?"

Draco pursed his lips. "Don't pass judgment on me, Potter. You've no idea the guilt I had to bear after what happened. I could have got her killed, I could have hurt her—"

"You managed to do that anyway," Harry said coldly. "Do me a favor and cut the pity party, Malfoy."

His words cut deep. Still, Draco couldn't help himself any longer: "How is she?" he asked.

"She's fine, no thanks to you." Harry saw Draco's face fall and he softened just slightly. "She was torn up at first, but she's stronger than she gives herself credit for. She's great now. Fantastic, really. Brilliant at her job, very successful."

Draco wondered if she even realized it'd been a year. Did she even think of him anymore, or had he just been a bump in her road? Was he nothing more than a project she'd failed to fix?

"Potter, you can't tell her I'm here," he said.

Harry scoffed. "You know, I really thought you'd changed, Malfoy. But I see you're still as much of a coward as ever."

Draco bit back his tongue. Potter wasn't wrong, there was little evidence to the contrary. "I thought I was doing the right thing."

"Maybe at first you did. But it's been a year now. Look at yourself—you're hiding away. Even if you didn't want to be with her, you know the way you left was wrong." Harry shook his head in disappointment and turned to leave the shop, but then Draco called out to stop him.

"Wait."

Harry looked back, eyebrow raised.

"I…I left my briefcase at your house. It's got really important things in it. Do you think you could…"

Harry shook his head unapologetically. "Hermione took it. Today, actually. She found it in our guest room and brought it home with her."

Draco felt his heart lurch. She'd found his briefcase, and she took it home with her.

 _She'd been thinking of him._

He locked the store the moment Harry left and raced back up to the studio upstairs, pacing back and forth nervously. He'd spent the year alone, doing what he loved—magic—and he realized that he didn't hate himself in the way he did when he first met her. He no longer felt he was undeserving of happiness. In fact, he'd found happiness in many ways. He loved his work. He no longer wanted to rip his forearm off every time he looked down at it. He'd made peace with his past. He'd done everything he could to relieve his soul from the burden of what Percy had done. The only thing holding him back was the mistake he'd made when he left her.

But she'd been thinking of him. So maybe… Maybe she could forgive him?

He reached under his shirt, undid the necklace hanging around his neck, and shoved it into his shirt pocket. He'd held the charm countless times over the year, sending out little messages to her, but she'd either not received the messages, or chose to ignore them. Perhaps she'd tossed the necklace into the rubbish bin, just as he had done with her.

Theo tried to get him to throw the necklace away several times, but Draco worked him into a compromise, promising not to touch the charm anymore if he could still keep it on. It was pathetic, he knew, but still he waited for her signal.

But now it'd been a year, and he had nothing but a story from Potter that she'd taken his briefcase home with her. It could mean nothing—maybe she took it with her to burn in her fireplace, relishing in seeing his hard work catch fire and shrivel to ashes. Maybe she wanted to read his notes and keep them for herself—she always had been most attracted to his knowledge. Or maybe, just maybe, she was looking for a part of him to cling to.

He collapsed into his armchair and sighed, burrowing his forehead in his hands. He'd passed another year of his life as a recluse, and it was just now beginning to dawn on him that he was wasting away his time. What he needed, he decided, was closure. He needed to see her, apologize, and hopefully let go. If he made peace with the only mistake he still had bearing down on his shoulders, perhaps he could finally create a happy life for himself out in the open, free for good.

Tomorrow, he decided. Tomorrow he would stop waiting for a sign from her, he would owl her, ask her to lunch, and apologize once and for all for what he'd done.

He was set and satisfied with his decision when he felt a sharp burning sensation against his chest. Frowning, he brought his hand up to where the heat was emanating from, and cursed out loud when he realized it was coming from the necklace.

" _Shit_ ," he whispered to himself.

* * *

It took all of five minutes for Draco to find a loophole in Hermione's wards. They were the trickiest ones he'd had to break yet, but he was a determined man, and he had the advantage of being let into her wards back when they first began work together. The moment he got into her flat he called out for her, looking for her everywhere, but she wasn't home. The only living thing he found was a blasted black ball of fur that meowed at him aggressively from the top of the kitchen cabinets.

The swell of hope he'd felt in his chest when his necklace burned quickly died, leaving him feeling hollow and defeated. Maybe the burning had been a fluke. Maybe he'd even imagined it.

Still, he couldn't bring himself to just go back home. Even if she hadn't sent the sign out to him, he could still wait for her to come home and go through with the apology he had planned out. He'd look like a damned madman, but he really had nothing to lose at this point. She already hated him.

To pass the time, he looked around her living room. It was nearly exactly the same as the first time he'd seen it before they left on their trip over a year ago. A few photos on her mantelpiece had been updated, including a Muggle photo of her and baby James. She looked so radiantly happy holding the infant.

At the end of the mantle he saw a photo that made his heart drop again. It was from the re-opening celebration at Hogwarts. He remembered the moment: he was at the event to save face, and he was miserable staring at the holy trio celebrating. He watched her laugh, and saw himself brood in the corner. She'd kept the photo, and not only that, she'd placed it where she'd see it every time she took the Floo or sat down to read a book. It was up there with snapshots capturing the faces of all the most important people in her life: her parents, her family, her friends, and in a small corner, in the distance… him.

Maybe he really was a madman, reading into things this much. But then again, he never felt as insane, in the best way possible, than when he was around her.

As he walked he saw a few papers littering the floor in front of her couch beside a knit blanket. The flat was spotless otherwise, and when he took a closer look, he recognized his own handwriting. They were _his_ notes. He pushed the blanket aside and saw his Prophesieve sitting there on the floor, glowing white. He felt the breath leave his lungs. She'd used it. What if she had seen the same thing he did? What if she figured it was good that he left, that she'd been spared such a grim future?

Now twice as nervous, he decided to make himself a cup of tea while he waited for her to return home. It occurred to him that this might be creepy, but he had crossed several lines at this point, so he might as well go all the way.

That was where he was when she came home: hunched over a cup of tea at her kitchen table, trying to shoo away her blasted cat, who kept trying to rub against his leg. He was so caught up with the creature, in fact, that he didn't even hear her come through the Floo. He didn't notice she was back until he heard someone clearing their throat from the doorway.

"Malfoy."

He jerked around. There she was—freckles, brown eyes, wild hair, white sweater, and clutched in her left hand, her necklace. Her face was pale, her expression blank.

It hadn't been a fluke. It had really been her.

He stood, heart racing. "Hermione."

* * *

A/N: The penultimate chapter. Leave your comments please!


	33. An Ending

**Chapter Thirty-Three: An Ending**

* * *

Hermione arrived back at her flat with tired shoulders and wet eyes. She hadn't felt so utterly empty and defeated in a long while. She tossed her boots to the side and slumped onto her couch, staving off the urge to cry. She looked for Eleanor, who usually greeted her when she came home, but couldn't find the cat. She turned side to side, confused, and then saw the light was on in her kitchen.

"What…?" She stood abruptly and turned the corner into the kitchen, wand held up warily. There, at her dining table, she saw a stranger sitting. A stooped figure. A head of blond hair. A cup of tea. She dropped her wand.

"Malfoy."

It was neither a question nor an exclamation, rather a simple statement, spoken barely above a whisper. The head turned, and there he was: grey eyes and pale skin and hard lines that melted immediately.

"Granger."

He stood and she shook, taking a small step backwards. "What are you doing here…?"

"I came the moment I felt it burn." His eyes were dancing, his face brightening. He was a picture frozen in time; a year hadn't changed him much. It was the same face she saw on the back of her eyelids as she drifted to sleep every night, except now he was really there, standing in front of her, close enough to touch. "Hermione, I waited… I waited a year and I never felt it, and then just a few minutes ago I felt it burn and I came."

She frowned, and then— _of course_. At the cottage. She touched the locket at the cottage, just briefly, but it must have been enough to trigger his. And he _came_ , he came straight to where she was. In fact, he somehow got right into her own kitchen, even made himself a cup of tea.

"You weren't here when I arrived," he continued. "So I waited. I wanted to be here when you came back."

"I was at the cottage," she blurted. He gave her a questioning frown and she rambled. "The cottage, in Rhode Island. It's hard to explain, I used the Prophesieve—I know I'm not supposed to touch it, but I did, I found it at Harry and Ginny's this afternoon so I used it—and I got the idea to go to the cottage. I thought you'd be there, but you weren't, and now… Now you're in my flat. How the _hell_ did you get in my flat?"

"Determination," he said with a small smile. Hesitant.

She was drawn between wanting to kiss him and punch him in the jaw. Every fiber of her being was begging her to rush at him, touch him, trace the lines of his jaw, pull him close. But this was the man that left her for a year without a single letter. This was the man who made her love him only to tear her heart apart, and she didn't know how she was supposed to forgive him.

"Why didn't you write?" she asked, the tears welling up again. He moved towards her but she shook her head and backed into the wall. "Don't," she requested. "Please don't."

His shoulders drooped. "I'm sorry."

"Answer the question."

"I wanted to," he said, wringing his hands anxiously, the same way she used to. "Only a few weeks after I left, I knew it was a mistake. But I knew you would be so angry with me. You never contacted me, and I thought… Well, I waited for a sign that you wanted me. I waited for the necklace to burn."

She shook her head slowly, her lips parted slightly in sheer outrage. "You were waiting for _me_ to contact _you_?" she said furiously.

"I thought you'd reach out to me if you wanted to hear from me…" he defended weakly.

She practically shook from nerves and anger. "Why, you… You selfish, arrogant, cowardly _prick_!" All the pain she felt from the first day he left came flooding back and she was releasing it upon him like a tidal wave. "You made me trust you, then care for you, and goddamnit, Draco Malfoy, you made me _love_ you. Then you left claiming you don't deserve me, you broke my heart, you didn't write me, you didn't give me any indication that you even care about me, and now you come back and tell me _you were waiting for me to send a sign_? How— _dare_ —you!"

She was screaming now, her cheeks pink and her hair flying wild. She punctuated her words with furious stomps of her feet and wild gestures of her hands. But unlike every other time they argued, Draco wasn't participating. He stood, frozen, eyebrows furrowed so deeply they almost touched.

"You loved me?" he asked quietly.

She squinted at him, shaking her head. "Well of course I bloody well loved you, wasn't that obvious, you pig-headed idiotic arsehole?"

He smiled the widest smile she'd ever seen grace his face, then took two long strides forward, closing the gap between them, and before she could open her mouth to argue he kissed her, hard. Hard enough to make up for the past year, hard enough to temporarily make her forget the past year even happened.

He didn't push his limits, didn't touch her anywhere but her arms. He broke the kiss after a few seconds and pushed his forehead against hers like he always did, his eyes mere inches away. "I love you," he said breathily. "I loved you, I loved you all this past year, I never stopped loving you."

She was fighting against every cell in her body that begged her to close the gap between them again. Instead she settled for lifting her finger to his jaw, committing to memory the soft feel of his skin, the firmness of the bone underneath. She'd forgotten what he felt like. She breathed a short sigh of defeat. "We need to talk about this," she said. "You don't get to just come back and kiss me. That's not how this works."

"I know."

"You're in my kitchen. How the _fuck_ did you get in my kitchen? You can't just appear like this and profess your love for me after being fucking absent for a year!" She felt herself growing hysterical again and Eleanor was pacing back and forth at her feet, sensing her owner's anxiety. "You owe me a million explanations."

"Then let's talk," said Draco firmly. "I have _nothing_ but time to talk to you."

* * *

She poured herself a cup of tea and they talked. At first it was light small talk. They shared what they'd done the past year, what had changed, how Teddy and James and Ginny and Harry and Ron were, how Blaise and Goyle and Theo were, what was work at the Ministry like, what work at the shop was like, what they did over the holidays.

As they talked she drank him in with her eyes, realizing for the first time just how much she had missed him. The moment she laid eyes on him again, an aching beneath her ribs she hadn't known existed disappeared. He was familiar, he was security, he was home. The way he constantly ran his hand through his hair, mussing it up, how he cocked his head to the side when he was listening carefully, how his leg bounced up and down when he was sitting for too long. She wanted to reach under the table and ease it, but she wasn't ready to touch him yet.

She wanted to, though. God, she wanted to.

"I need to know," she asked slowly, finally reaching the question that loomed over them like a proverbial hippogriff in the room. "Why it was exactly that you left."

The tension returned between them and his leg stilled. He cast his eyes down at the table. "It was a mistake."

"That's not what I asked."

He sighed. "As much as things had changed after meeting you again, I still hadn't forgiven myself. There was this battle in my head between what I wanted and what I thought was right. All my life I turned my back on the 'right' choice, but finally I had a chance to be the noble one."

"But you didn't stop to consider what _I_ thought the right decision was."

He looked sheepish. "It turns out that nobility requires a fair amount of arrogance."

She granted him a small smile. "As a Gryffindor, I can affirm that statement 100%."

"I knew quickly I had made the wrong choice, but I remembered what you told me: if I leave, I leave. You wanted someone who was sure, not someone who would leave and come back and leave and come back. I had to respect that."

"You're an idiot," she chided.

"You've mentioned that once or twice," he said dryly.

She paused, stirred her tea, then set down her spoon. "Today's exactly a year since you left."

"I know."

"You do?"

He let out a surprised snort. "Of course. I've been practically counting the days."

"What a coincidence," she mused. "That I would find your briefcase today of all days."

Privately, Draco had a hunch it wasn't coincidence at all that she came across the Prophesieve on the anniversary of his abandonment. Divination worked in strange ways, but he knew Hermione didn't believe in that sort of thing and he didn't bring it up. He wanted desperately to know what she had seen when she used the Prophesieve and what she thought about it, but had been too nervous to ask. Swallowing this fear, he forced out the question.

"Granger, I have to ask…" he said. "What happened when you used the Prophesieve? What did you see?"

She leaned back in her seat and sighed, not quite ready to tell him all the details of the future she saw for them. "I saw us. You and me, together. We had a family. A life together."

His eyes were hopeful. "We did?"

She nodded. "I saw several scenes, and the last one was you and I meeting again at the cottage. I thought they might be glimpses of the future, so I followed what it told me to do. I went to the cottage."

"That's not exactly how it works," he said. "It's not a precise prophecy. It shows you fragments of what your life _could_ be like, given the memory you inserted. It's impossible to see the exact future, of course. It only shows you what might be."

She felt relief and regret wash over her at the same time. She was relieved she wasn't bound to the future she saw, but all in all, it didn't seem like a horrible life to live. She was happy with Draco in that reality, truly, fully happy.

"Have you tried using it?" she asked.

He nodded grimly. "Just once. It was… Too much."

"What did you see?"

His face darkened and he looked down at his now-lukewarm cup of tea. "It wasn't the brightest future. I used a memory of us fighting, which is probably why." His lip twitched. "We couldn't make our relationship work because of all the gossip. I felt guilty and left you… Sort of like what really happened except I couldn't really stay away. You married someone else but we kept sleeping together."

She frowned, unable to believe she would cheat on her husband in any reality.

"You became pregnant, then lost the baby. It was too much for you and I, and we parted ways. You stayed with your husband, I had my own family. You became successful at the Ministry, I wrote a textbook. Then… Then you died."

Her heart panged at his words. The future he saw was so starkly different than hers. "When did you see all this?"

"I used it one of our last nights at the Potters'. I didn't tell you because I didn't want you to know what I saw."

Suddenly all the pieces were falling together. "And you believed that to be the most likely turn of events."

"Not exactly," he said. "I knew that it was just a possibility. A roll of the dice, a bad hand. But then everything happened with Percy and it only magnified every fear I had. I thought that by staying with you, I'd only make your life worse. I didn't want to taint you."

She wanted to smack him again, but held back. "That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard."

"It felt right at the time," he said. "Then once I left, I saw you were doing so well without me. I wanted you to find happiness with someone else, and I didn't want to become the other man like I had been in the Prophesieve."

"I would never have 'another man'," she said scornfully.

He smirked, and she longed again to touch him. She missed his smirk. "I suppose that's a flaw in the formula, then, because I can't see you being an adulteress, either."

She smiled sheepishly. "The life I saw was a happy one."

"Was it?"

"Yes. When I saw it, I thought… Well, I thought I wouldn't mind living my life with you."

He tipped his head to the side curiously. "Would you… Would you tell me what you saw?"

She hesitated, but he looked up at her with the most pathetic puppy-dog stare and she gave in. "I saw a wedding at the Weasley house. I saw myself doubt you, I saw us fight, but I saw us make up again. I saw a little boy with your hair and my eyes. I saw a home by the water. I saw you with gray hair and a cane, but your eyes still…" she stopped, choking up a bit. "They still lit up the way they always do when I shout at you."

He laughed. "I have a mad infatuation with the way you yell at me."

"Masochist."

"Only with you." His finger traced spirals on the table. "Granger?" he asked.

"Hm?"

"I missed this."

She looked up at him sitting in her kitchen, drinking a cup of tea, and marveled at how easily they fell back into their old teasing. "I missed this, too."

"I don't want to ask you for forgiveness," he said slowly. "Because I know you can't give that to me now. I didn't come here with the intention of begging for you back, either, really. I came here only to finally reach the closure I desperately needed, to thank you for everything you did for me, and to apologize for leaving you like I did."

She bit the inside of her lip. He was so hopeful, so full of remorse and promise. "Did you find what you were looking for by leaving?" she asked. "Did you forgive yourself, or find the man who would deserve me, like you wanted?"

"Sort of," he said honestly. "I found peace. You were the light switch that I needed flipped in order to find the path to forgiveness. I realized that I could forgive myself and find peace without you. I don't want to, but I can. I found that I'm an idiot, and I found out that I should really always listen to you because you're rarely wrong, and I found that if you say you want me, then I should believe you."

"So you didn't come here to try and get me back?" she asked.

He bowed his head. "No."

She took a deep breath. She could tell this was one of those turning points—her choice of what to say in this moment would define the path her life would take moving forward. This was one of the moments that, in the Prophesieve-like vision of her real life, would be highlighted in bright hues. Here was where she could make a choice, and before she could let her logical side weigh her down, she clutched her Gryffindor courage tight to her chest and took the plunge. "But would you want me back?" she asked.

Draco blinked once, twice, three times, dumbly, like he hadn't considered this to be a possibility. "I… Of course… But what do you mean?"

Her heart thumped achingly but the warm tickle in her fingers and toes told her she was making the right choice. "I mean that… Well, we all make mistakes. Granted, your share of mistakes is larger than average, but I think under the right circumstances, given certain terms, I would be willing to let you back into my life."

"You mean a second chance?"

"A third or fourth, realistically speaking." She smirked but the humor was lost on Draco, who was still processing her offer.

"Granger…"

"Hermione."

"Hermione," he corrected. "I promise to you that's not what I came here for."

"I know."

His wide gray eyes flitted about: from her eyes to her forehead, her cheeks, her nose, her neck, down to her hands, lingering on her lips, then back to her eyes. He opened his mouth but the only thing that escaped was a small strained noise. Then, after closing his eyes and shaking his head at himself, he lunged forward and grabbed her lips with his. It wasn't a confident, steadfast kiss like she remembered theirs always being, but rather a quivering release of nerves. When he pulled away she expected him to be shaking, but he seemed newly firm. "It would mean the world."

"So," said Hermione breathlessly, pulling away from him. "We could try again."

"We could."

"But I have some terms, of course."

He scoffed playfully and she remembered their first day at the hotel, when they'd written out their terms of agreement for working together. How things had changed. "I would expect nothing else from you," he said.

"If we try this again, you have to be honest with me."

"Okay," he agreed, believing this to be an easy promise to make.

"No more hoarding all your feelings to yourself. You've got to talk to me."

This one he seemed more hesitant about, but he agreed nevertheless.

"And you have to promise to agree that I'm always right."

He sighed exasperatedly. "And _I'm_ the manipulative Slytherin here?"

"I learned from the best," she said with a wink.

"Fine. I will agree that you're always right, even when you're wrong."

"I need you to be honest with me. You can't keep secrets or be all broody all the time. If we do this, we have to start really slow. We can… be friends. You can court me. I want to learn to trust you again."

"Court you," he mused, mulling the words over. "I suppose I could do that."

She looked around her kitchen. "I was actually going to go out for some food tonight. Maybe you could come with me? We could talk more, figure out things."

"Sure."

"It'll be different, though, being together in the real world outside of a cottage or Harry and Ginny's house. And you're sure you're ready to face that?"

Draco glanced back at the door to her flat, imagining the world that was waiting for him out there. Then he looked back at Hermione and found that he wasn't really frightened at all anymore. He smiled. "I'm sure." Then, with a shy smile, he asked her a question in a small voice that was utterly un-Malfoylike. "But before we go, can you say it one more time?"

"Say what?"

He shuffled sheepishly in his seat. "That you loved me. I'm not sure I can believe it if the only time you said it was while yelling at me."

She rolled her eyes, but still grinned stupidly. "I love you. Well, I _did_ , anyway. I'm not saying it again until we get this thing right."

"Of course," he said. "But can I still say it in the meantime?"

"What, just to irritate me?"

He smirked. "Yes."

"Fine."

"I love you, Granger."

* * *

In the end, neither of their Prophesieve journeys had been entirely accurate. In the end, there was a wedding, but after much objection on Draco's part, it took place at Hogwarts, not the Burrow. Hermione found out she was pregnant three months before the wedding date, and George and Ron liked to joke it was a shotgun wedding, even though they'd been engaged for a year before she became pregnant.

The engagement ring was presented to her in a hollowed-out copy of _Hogwarts, A History_. After crying and kissing him and shouting yes fourteen times, Hermione made sure to scold Draco for defacing a copy of one of her favorite books.

There was a fight, just as there were many fights, most of which ended with the pair in bed. There was a two-week span after a particularly nasty fight during which Draco slept on the couch at Grimmauld Place, but Hermione had been eight months pregnant at the time and wasn't in the best mood.

There was a son with Draco's hair and Hermione's eyes named Leo. But he came _after_ his sister, who had Hermione's hair _and_ Hermione's eyes, but Draco's chin, which he would often point out as his only proof of paternity. She was named Lyra.

Lyra was a Slytherin. Leo was a Ravenclaw. Both parents were proud.

There were many things in between. There was a miscarriage that tore them apart and then brought them together even stronger than before. There were countless birthday parties, anniversaries, and Christmases. There were Sunday dinners at the Burrow and twice-monthly playdates with Teddy and Andromeda. There were successful career milestones, book signings, press conferences, and lavish retirement parties.

And at the end of it all, there was a small cottage by the water in Rhode Island, where Hermione said the salty sea air helped with her aging lungs. Draco had a cane and, much to his dismay, receding silver hair. Whenever Hermione nagged him about leaving his dishes in the sink or forgetting to put away his laundry, his eyes still lit up with the same fire as when they were young and new.

And when Hermione sat by his side in a hospital bed, felt her necklace burn for the last time, and saw that fire in his eyes die for good, she knew with a full heart that there was no possible reality that could have made her more radiantly happy than the one she lived.

* * *

But before there was all of that, there was a second-first date on the grounds of Hogwarts, one week after Draco and Hermione had reunited and decided to give 'courting' another go.

It was winter break and the grounds were nearly empty. A light snowfall littered the grounds, speckling the rooftops like sifted sugar. Draco apparated them over without telling Hermione where they were going. When she opened her eyes, she frowned in confusion.

"Hogwarts?" she asked.

He nodded. "Follow me."

Hand-in-hand, he led her on a tour of the place where they once only knew one another as enemies. Nostalgia washed over her with every step. Their first stop was the edge of the Forbidden Forest near Hagrid's hut.

"This is where we had detention together our first year," Draco explained. "We got in trouble because I followed you and Potter and Weasley because you had a dragon—"

"You _thought_ we had a dragon—"

"Come off of it, I know you had a dragon."

"Fine," she laughed. "We had a dragon."

"In this forest, I nearly got killed, and our story very well could have ended here," he said dramatically. "Lucky for you, I survived." She rolled her eyes.

Their next stop was the Quidditch pitch. They stood in the middle of the pitch, surrounding by empty snow-capped bleachers. "This is where I made one of the stupidest and most shameful mistakes of my youth," Draco said humorlessly. "This is where I first called you a Mudblood."

Hermione grimaced. "Ron was so angry that day… It was such a big deal that first time. And then you kept saying it to me, over and over, and eventually…"

"You didn't have the energy to care," he said, his voice heavy.

"No."

He pulled her close and sighed into her hair. "I'm sorry."

"You've mentioned that once or twice," she said, her voice muffled against his chest.

"Shut up, I'm trying to be sincere."

She knew exactly where he was taking her after this: the castle doors past Hagrid's hut. She smiled mischievously. "Could we stage a re-enactment?" she asked when they arrived at the spot.

"Absolutely not."

"Please?" she asked.

"You're not slapping me again," he said. Then, with a smirk: "Unless it's in bed."

She pinched his arm. "You deserved that slap, you know."

"I know," he said. "You also hit really hard for a thirteen-year-old girl."

"I had three years' worth of pent-up anger in me. It was bound to hurt."

She wondered where they were going next; she couldn't remember anything significant happening their fourth year. He brought her to the Great Hall, which was lined with empty tables. She stared wistfully at the spot she used to occupy every morning for breakfast and imagined the light filtering in, warming her skin as she prepared her notes for that day's classes. "What happened here?" she asked.

"The Yule Ball," he said simply.

She frowned. "Were you even at the Yule Ball?"

"I _was_ , thank you very much for noticing. You were too wrapped up in that Krum wanker to pay attention to anyone else."

She ignored his comment. "What's the significance of the Yule Ball?"

"It was the first time I thought you were beautiful. Even _I_ couldn't come up with a single criticism for you that night."

She blushed and didn't say anything else, just kissed his cheek and let him lead her to the next location.

They went up the moving staircases and explored the winding halls until they reached the entrance to McGonagall's office. "The headmaster's office?" she asked.

"This is where Umbridge was our fifth year."

Hermione practically shuddered at mere sound of Umbridge's name. "Why would you bring up that foul witch?"

"This was where she held her Inquisitorial Squad meetings. I used to think I was _so_ important, being a part of that group. I was looking for a way to feel like something more, do you know? I was so tired of you beating me in marks…"

She laughed softly and shook her head. "You have such a fragile ego."

"I still do."

She expected him to take her to a sixth spot, but instead he led her to the top of a staircase and sat down. She leaned her head against his shoulder and looked up at him. "Nothing for sixth year?"

He sighed heavily and folded his hands together. "The first five years were different. I can look back on those and know that what I did can be forgiven. But our sixth year was when I made mistakes with consequences that scarred permanently. Those were the types of choices that can't be forgiven so easily, but you have shown grace on a level that I hadn't thought possible. I'm so sorry for what I did that year and the year that followed."

She listened somberly to his apology and tilted his chin down to meet her gaze. "I'm sorry you made those mistakes, too."

"When I met you all over again that day in the Ministry, for the first time, someone fought for me. Someone told me I deserved to have a fighting chance, and I couldn't quite grasp that idea. I just wasn't ready to forgive myself, yet. I didn't think I deserved you." He reached over to intertwine his fingers with hers, the warmth of his words pulsating from his fingertips to hers. "When I left, I thought I could fix myself, and then I could deserve you. But I think now, coming back here with you, looking back on my mistakes and having you stay by my side as I recall them… I've realized I can't _fix_ myself. But you have shown me something more, something better. With you, I finally was able to accept my brokenness and move forward, and for that, Hermione Granger, I am _eternally_ grateful."

She looked down at their interlocked fingers, at his Mark surrounded by tattooed flowers, at his arms that always held her tight and made her feel safe, at his neck where his necklace hung, at his jaw, sharp and stern and proud, at his hair that flopped over his forehead, at his eyes, profound and newly warm. She nestled herself into his chest and breathed him in deep, smiling. "You're welcome," she whispered. "You're so very welcome."

* * *

A/N: That's it. I'm not crying, you're crying! I hope this wrapped everything up for you.

Feel free to story/author alert for possible future stuff. Might happen, might not. I'll be focusing more on my original work and won't have time this summer to update a fic anyway, as I'm working kinda crazy hours. Thank you all so much for your kind words over the past five-ish months. You all have been so fun to talk to and so supportive and kind!

If you haven't yet left a comment, please do so now! A last hurrah! I would love to know what you liked and what you would change. Even though this is not meant to be an example of my best writing, I'm always looking for ways to become a better writer.

Again, thank you so very much for your support. It means the world. Hearts for all of you!


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